Harry Potter and the Might of Artifice
by Lounge256
Summary: Harry Potter understands. He just gets how things work. Both handy and crafty, perhaps he can surprise the wizarding world with his inventiveness, and maybe this is the 'power he knows not'. Divergent from canon with each choice Harry makes - how will JKR's characters fare after such a simple change?
1. The Boy Who Understood

**A/N: I hope you all enjoy this story. I'm having a great time writing it and exploring where one simple change can take everything. Admittedly, I don't have much time to write, particularly at the moment as I've started a new job recently, but I'm not going to give this up. I don't like Author's Notes, so I'll keep them to a bare minimum and remove whatever necessary to not distract your reading and inflate the word count.**

**Additionally, I'm beta-reading NeoMare's story Right Side of Hell, which is a great read. I don't want my slowness to impact anyone else's story, so that will tend to take up more of my time. If that story is being updated, be assured I'm still writing this one.**

**Finally, for your convenience, I will including a summary of the story so far and the end of the previous chapter in any new chapters. This is because I know how difficult it is to remember what's happened so far whenever you get a story update, particularly if you're following a lot of stories. I hope you find it convenient. Now, please enjoy the story!**

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-Chapter One-

The Boy Who Understood

Records showed that Harry Potter was brought up by his maternal aunt and uncle, Vernon and Petunia Dursley. There were no problems; he was in good health and attended a local school with a perfect record of attendance. Statements from the Dursleys' neighbours confirmed that the boy was being treated well and given good examples on how to become a productive member of society, although he was admittedly not taking those lessons on board during his free time. The local children feared the boy and avoided him. Even looking at his school record, one could see that Potter was somewhat troublesome. His academic scores were poor, to say the least.

Dudley Dursley was clearly the brighter of the two children in residence at Number Four, Privet Drive. Their teachers would confirm this when asked, pointing to the fact that, since the middle of Year One, Harry's grades were always a grade lower than Dudley's in every test. Almost every test. Administrative errors happen. At the beginning of every year, there was often a test score where Harry achieved a high grade, including when Harry was moved into another class to prevent him disrupting Dudley's learning. The boy had cheated and was only caught later.

At least, that was the story presented. In truth, Harry was a bright but quiet boy. It took him until the Spring Term in Year One to realise that he was punished for doing better than Dudley in tests. He had still wanted to do well and to learn; he knew that it would be his only chance to escape from the Dursleys. Formulating a plan, he had approached his teacher and formed an agreement. He would do his best in the tests, but his teacher would record his official score as a grade below his cousin's. It took quick thinking on Harry's part to explain that it was purely to make his cousin feel better about himself, but he was still more than surprised when teacher after teacher agreed to this. He disregarded the vacant looks in their eyes whenever the agreements were made.

None of the teachers could have imagined that the curious Harry Potter spent his nights, as well as a good proportion of his evenings and weekends, in a tiny cupboard under the stairs. Never mind that it was a small space for a child to grow up, he also had to contend with bags and tools and dusters and an old vacuum cleaner for space. The Dursleys were careful not to put any old toys under the stairs, however. They made sure to use the spare bedroom to store the toys that weren't currently flavour of the month with Dudley. Every time Harry was given a toy by a kindly stranger or a teacher, it was taken away as soon as it was discovered. The toys were offered to Dudley, and if they passed muster they were acquired. Otherwise, the journey to the bin was a short one.

Over the years, Harry learned to hide things, just like hiding his intelligence and curiosity. Covering things up with a ratty old blanket rarely worked for long, so Harry began to think. He thought back to the books he'd read, both at school and at the local library. There was a huge section on home improvement and carpentry at one end of the library and Harry remembered reading about Chinese puzzle boxes at the other end. He'd read a lot about all sorts of systems and mechanisms - he just loved to know how things worked. There was plenty of inspiration, but he had to be careful. Late at night, Harry worked within his cupboard. It took him weeks. He had to saw the wood so slowly that it couldn't be heard over Uncle Vernon's snoring. He limited his hammering to one good hit per night, leaving his relatives irritable for lack of sleep, but not knowing what kept waking them up. It was a painstaking process and Harry had to ensure there was no evidence by morning.

The cupboard under the stairs was somewhat more cramped by the time Harry was finished. He hoped against all hopes that his relatives wouldn't find out. He screwed up his eyes, clenched his fists and prayed to whatever higher power there may be that his secrets would remain safe. He was shaking when his uncle next looked in with suspicion glinting in his beady eyes and sighed with relief when he just sneered, his expression partly hidden by his beefy moustache.

"Get up," Uncle Vernon growled. Harry scuttled out from the cupboard, under his uncle's arm and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the frying pan. A pack of sausages had been left in the pan and were already beginning to blacken. Flushed with his success, he planned his freedom while he saved the sausages. The wheels were turning.

Indeed, by the time he had completed this next project, he was almost eleven years old. Not that the Dursleys ever marked the occasion. He had received the same number of presents over the years as the number of photos in which he appeared around the house. Even Dudley could count up to zero. The first thing he received was a letter. It was so very different from the letters usually addressed to the Dursleys. It definitely wasn't a bill. It most certainly wasn't going to be appreciated if he brought it to the kitchen with the rest of the post. Harry tucked it into an imperceptible gap under the lip of one of the stairs and delivered the rest of the post to his uncle. He was careful to put the bills at the bottom of the pile otherwise he would be sure to get the blame.

That night, Harry sat with his knees pulled up to his chest in the near complete darkness of his cupboard. The three distinct sets of footsteps had stopped and it was only a matter of waiting long enough to guarantee that they were asleep. Eventually, when he thought he would explode from the anticipation, he began to move. He pressed the wall of the cupboard in two places, rotated the board that was pushed out from the others and slid back a hidden latch before folding back the fake wall. Shelves lined the area beyond and held the precious items which saved his sanity. There were toys, puzzles, books and writing materials. His eyes slid past these treasures, however, seeking out only the item laying on the floor. It was the letter.

Harry could have used the battered old torch on the shelf, its rapidly depleting batteries powering the dimly flickering bulb, but he wanted to read his letter properly, not missing anything by guessing any hard-to-read words. Sliding a couple of wooden bars to the sides, he pushed up on part of the ceiling. Anybody standing by the front door would have seen two of the stairs folding outwards as though a great wooden monster were about to bite the leg of the unfortunate person climbing over it. The staircase monster vomited out a scrawny boy with a mess of black hair and he pushed his way out of the tight gap, a parchment envelope gripped in his hand.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Harry flicked the switch of the overly flowery table lamp, eyes darting towards the door to the hallway. He heard nothing, aside from the sound of his heart attempting to beat its way out of his chest. The wax seal was delightfully intricate, so Harry peeled it away from the envelope as carefully as possible. Slowly teasing out the sheets of parchment inside, Harry's eyes drank in the curved but precise calligraphy upon them. Though he hadn't yet ventured into the calligraphy and writing section of the local library, he felt as though he knew what went into creating such beauty. He'd worked out the shape of the nib and the exact angle needed for the shapes created. He'd even noticed the slight differences in form that told him the pen, or even quill, had needed refilling.

Briefly, Harry wondered how many times the pen had needed to be refilled for every invitation written, for it was indeed an invitation. More pressing, however, was the content of the invitation. He was being invited to attend a school and, if the letter were to be believed, it was a school of _magic_. Harry snorted. If only. He knew how things worked and in the grand scheme of things there was just no room for magic. The real magic was in making something complicated work. Still, it would have been nice to leave the Dursleys. He would have loved to reply to the letter, just to get more of the elaborate story clearly being set up, but the only mention of a reply was 'we await your owl by no later than 31 July.' There wasn't even a return address so, disappointed, Harry flicked off the light and climbed back into the stairs.

Every time Harry was in his cupboard in the week leading up to his birthday, he brushed his fingers across the parchment of the letter, convincing himself that it had arrived. It was nice that someone out there was thinking of him in particular. He liked to daydream, while he was doing his chores, that this mystery professor might give him his first birthday present. For the first time in his life, he counted down the days to his birthday. In his anticipation, the hours dragged by. Cleaning the toilet was a marathon task. Cooking breakfast was an unprecedented slog. Every other plant in the garden seemed to be a weed calling for his attention. More slowly than ever, his birthday arrived.

Sleep didn't come to Harry for a long time and he was certain, by the time he drifted off, that he was eleven years old. Indeed, it was a very groggy eleven-year-old who was grimacing at the screeching of his Aunt Petunia scorning his body's attempt at a lie-in. The smell of burning gave him just enough warning that he managed to raise an arm to fend off the still-sizzling frying pan brandished in his direction. Getting a nice shiny burn for his troubles, he sighed with relief as Aunt Petunia strode back to the kitchen and dumped the charred remains of a dozen rashers of bacon into the bin. Adrenaline flooded Harry's body instantly and he was more awake than he had been in a week. He rushed into the kitchen to cook a box of eggs and nearly half a loaf of fried bread in order to make up for the lack of meat in the day's breakfast.

Throughout the day, Harry tried to stay close to the front door, eager to see if there was anything more to the mysterious letter. When set to dust the whole house, the hallway and the closest parts of the adjoining rooms somehow took more time than the rest of the house. He was quick to water the plants in the back garden, but was very careful to water the soil around the plants in the front garden, making sure that no water rested on their leaves to burn them in the sun. While sweeping the kitchen, he heard a knock at the door and decided to risk answering it. It was Mrs Figg, carrying some bags of cat food tins which rustled as she wobbled in place.

"Is your aunt in, Harry?" she asked as she returned the uncharacteristic smile from Harry.

"I'll go and get her for you," Harry promised. "I'll be right back." Harry entered the sitting room, where the television was loudly displaying a banal, chintzy soap. "Sorry to disturb you, Aunt Petunia, but Mrs Figg's at the door." Aunt Petunia grunted in a manner reminiscent of her husband and unfolded herself from the sofa. She walked past Harry, who returned to the kitchen.

That night, Harry lay awake in his cupboard, fighting off sleep. He had the letter clutched in his hand and was desperate to check the date written upon it. No matter how many times he'd checked with the battered old torch, he wanted to check under the crisp, clear light of the lamp, just to make sure. He wasn't disappointed, and yet he was. The late night freedom had confirmed that he had read the date correctly, but he was sad that nothing had happened. The last day of July had been and gone with nothing to mark its passing.

Sighing heavily, Harry retreated to his cupboard through the stairs. He chucked the letter haphazardly at one of the shelves and shut both the stairs and the concealed panelling. His head barely touched the folded jumper he used for a pillow before sleep greedily snatched him away. Peace reigned for his remaining hours of seclusion and safety until he was woken by a sharp rapping at the door. As he heard, and felt, the footsteps marching down the stairs, Harry could imagine his aunt, hair still in rollers, hurriedly tying her floral dressing gown and scowling at the door. He strained his ears, holding his breath so that he could hear the conversation at the door.

"What is it?" his aunt hissed. Clearly it was too early in the morning for her usual mask of aloofness.

"Good morning, madam. My name is Minerva McGonagall. May I come in?"


	2. In August Company

-Chapter Two-

In August Company

"I'm sorry," Aunt Petunia said, "I'm rather busy at the..." As her voice cut off abruptly, Harry's breath caught in his throat. The penny had dropped; he remembered where he'd heard that name before. It was the same as the one on the letter. Apparently, the M must stand for Minerva. He realised that he had expected a man, but that thought was quickly followed him questioning why he should think that. His musings were cut short as Aunt Petunia began to reply once more, her voice not as clipped and crisp as before. "Of course, follow me to the sitting room."

As the two women moved into another room, the front door clicking closed a few seconds after they had entered, Harry regretted that he could no longer hear what was sure to be a fascinating conversation. He was sorely tempted to leave the cupboard and listen in, but he knew that his aunt would be furious if he was out and about while visitors were around. Besides, the cupboard door was still locked and there was no point in giving away the secret exit in the stairs. Sighing, he reopened the fake wall and retrieved the letter from where it had fallen down the back of the shelf.

The torch bulb flickered into life, protesting as Harry pressed the old button firmly to turn it on. He winced as he pulled out the pages of the letter and saw the edges crumpled by being roughly stuffed back into the envelope. Scanning down the paragraphs of green ink, he quickly found the last sentences. '_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.'_ Of course. He hadn't sent an owl by his birthday, but until this morning the owl could still be on its way. But why owls?

"There's nobody here by that name!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice said from across the sitting room. "Vernon, Dudley and I; We are the Dursleys. We've never heard of the name Potter, now I must insist that you leave." Harry's forehead creased in thought. Perhaps he really should make himself known. His only chance was rapidly dwindling. He paused with his hand on the wooden latch as he heard the visitor's voice, similarly raised.

"If that is the case, Mrs Dursley, then who is under your stairs?" Eyes wide, Harry scrambled back from the underside of the stairs and fumbled with the fake wall. He had just managed to close it and pull his blanket over him, eyes closed in a semblance of sleep, when the lock clicked and the door swung open. Starting, Harry's eyes snapped open to see who had opened the door. He shrunk back from the light, sharp against the comforting darkness of the cupboard.

His eyes adjusted to see both women still standing in the sitting room, the door opposite the entrance to his cupboard. Aunt Petunia was looking at him in horror while a stern-looking woman in a business suit was pointing a stick in his direction and scowling at his aunt. He blinked, not daring to move while his aunt opened and closed her mouth like a fish, making no noise. Eventually, her shoulders slumped. The lady who must have been Minerva strode towards Harry.

"Come along, Mr Potter. I'll explain everything on the way." Harry jumped at the chance and nearly banged his head in his eagerness to get out of the house. Minerva guided him to the front door by his shoulders.

"He's not coming back," Aunt Petunia called from the sitting room. Harry winced from Minerva's hand digging into his shoulder before she growled, spun back around and marched back to the sitting room door.

"Mark my words, Mrs Dursley," Minerva said, spitting Aunt Petunia's name with venom, "_I_ will most certainly be coming back. I will do everything in my power to protect Mr Potter from the likes of you." She ended this by pointing a trembling finger into the sitting room. "Grab your coat, Mr Potter," she said as she turned back to Harry.

"I- I don't have a coat," he replied quietly.

"Hm. What about this?" Minerva frowned and ducked into the cupboard under the stairs. She emerged with a lightweight, black coat and moved to wrap it around his shoulders.

"That's not mine," he said. In fact, he couldn't recall ever having seen it before.

"Never mind. Come along now." Minerva helped him get his arms through the correct holes and led him through the front door which opened before them. Harry barely registered the cool breeze and cloudless sky that promised a day of excellent weather before he was at the end of the driveway and turning to walk down Privet Drive. The further they walked, the more hope filled his heart, but with that hope came a fear. He didn't want to spoil the moment. He was afraid that asking a question might, rather than earn him a punishment as it did with the Dursleys, break the spell and end their escape. Nevertheless, he steeled himself as his curiosity won over his apprehension.

"What's going on?" he asked as they approached the sign at the end of the road, which named the monotonous stretch of tarmac. Minerva stopped, but didn't turn to look at Harry. She let out a deep breath and some of the rigidity flowed out of her posture.

"I'm sorry Mr Potter. I had better explain everything. Is there somewhere nearby where we can sit and talk?" She turned her head down to face him with a weary smile. He thought back to the times he had been allowed out, remembering where Dudley and his gang tended to hang out. It would be safe until at least lunchtime, and probably even longer now that he had an adult with him.

"There's a park this way," Harry said and tugged on Minerva's sleeve. He led her along Wisteria Walk and through the tunnel that burrowed under the busy main road, seeming to ignore the woman's admonitions and requests to slow down. Harry plonked himself onto one of the benches that were dotted around the edge of the park - the one closest to the swings - and Minerva gracefully lowered herself to sit next to him as he shuffled back. He swung his legs over the edge of the bench, feet just brushing the ground, as he waited patiently for her to talk.

"Mr Potter, my name is Professor McGonagall and I'm one of the teachers at Hogwarts. What do you know about Hogwarts so far?" Harry looked at her blankly. She furrowed her brow in return. "What about your parents?" Harry's face fell.

"They died in a car crash," Harry said in a quiet voice, dropping his gaze to the ground. He flinched as he heard a sharp intake of breath. As it was slowly let out, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder.

"No, Harry," Professor McGonagall said softly. "Did your aunt and uncle tell you that?" Harry nodded, keeping his eyes fixed unseeingly upon the concrete. "I'm afraid everything they've told you will be wrong. Let me start from the beginning. Your parents were nothing like your aunt and uncle, and a good thing too. I was honoured to count them as friends, particularly your mother. But more than being nice people, they were magic. Your mum was a witch and your dad was a wizard. They were both very clever."

"Hang on," said Harry, interrupting. "If mum and dad were magic, does that mean I'm magic too?" He looked up at Professor McGonagall, eyes shining brightly.

"Yes indeed, Harry. You're a wizard. I must say, I'm impressed at your reaction. Most people I've had to visit have wanted me to cast a few spells as proof."

"It doesn't surprise me as much as I thought it would," he admitted. "It would explain some of the strange things that have happened. That had been bugging me for a while now." The professor's eyebrows shot up. The boy sounded very mature for an eleven-year-old. He reasoned very well. "I wouldn't mind seeing some spells, though."

Professor McGonagall smiled. _Now there's the boy I was hoping to meet._ She pulled out her wand and waved it in a circle around the two of them before showing Harry the wonders of their world. He would never forget that first display of magic. Somehow, she created a bright, silver cat which sat between them, licking its paws. He revelled in the feeling of warmth, comfort and happiness that enveloped him, even as the cat raised one of its back paws high into the air to have a proper wash. It was a heady feeling, completely unfamiliar. The professor then picked a loose chip of concrete from the ground and tapped it with the end of her wand. He felt a sort of rush somewhere behind his ears as the rock slowly changed into a sparkling, golden bird. Professor McGonagall shook it. Half expecting the tinkling of a bell, Harry's jaw dropped as he heard the tweeting of the little bird, singing its heart out.

The bird remained clutched in Harry's fist as Professor McGonagall accompanied him on a train into London and eventually to a spot just in front of a grubby little pub called the Leaky Cauldron. As they stood outside briefly, Harry listened to the detailed instructions regarding how he could return in future via the many different methods of public transport. Meanwhile, he was also observing the passers-by. The book shop and record store flanking the tiny pub drew the gaze of the men and women walking past, but curiously the pub itself was ignored to the point that even Harry was tempted to doubt its existence.

"Other people can't see it, can they?" Harry asked.

"Well spotted," Professor McGonagall praised. "Only magical people will be able to see the building. Muggles are... encouraged to not see it. It helps protect us all. Imagine what might happen if magic was discovered by Muggles; people discovering something powerful that they will never be able to use. You have to keep the secret too, now, Harry. Never perform any magic in front of a Muggle."

"No, ma'am," Harry said. He deduced that 'Muggle' was probably a term for people who couldn't perform magic and filed that knowledge away. It wouldn't do to seem ignorant, even if the professor had needed to do the same for other magical children. She studied his face intently, as though looking for something, then patted his shoulder. Harry made a further deduction that this meant 'let's go' and stepped towards the grime-encrusted door.

Gloom pervaded the interior of the Leaky Cauldron and one golden shaft of light pierced through the centre of the taproom. The light wobbled as heavy smoke billowed through it and twinkling motes of dust glittered as they drifted across. Thankfully, the pall of smoke was above head height, else Harry was sure he would be coughing up at least one lung and drawing attention to the pair. From the way the professor led him through the shadows at the edge of the room, he could tell that this would have been less than desirable.

"We will be entering Diagon Alley now, Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said, looking at Harry wrinkling his nose at the smell of the rear courtyard. "I apologise for hurrying you through the Leaky Cauldron, but I don't think you'd want the hassle of everyone coming up to see you. I'm afraid you're very well known in our world. I'll tell you all about it after we've got our school things, yes, Mr Potter?" Harry nodded, then furrowed his brow.

"How will I be able to buy all my school things?" he asked. "Aunt Petunia wouldn't have given you any money." The professor crouched down to look Harry in the eye.

"You needn't worry about that, Mr Potter. Your parents left you plenty of money in Gringotts. That's our bank. We'll go there first so that we have enough money to buy what we need, and perhaps a few things we don't. Now, pay careful attention to how I open the entrance to the alley. You'll need to remember this." Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and held it in front of one of the bricks in the wall, pausing. "See how this brick has a hat on it?" Harry squinted and tilted his head.

"Oh yeah, like a witch's hat!" Harry exclaimed, finally seeing the shape of a faintly darker area. He was impressed. He wouldn't have seen it had he not been looking for it. Professor McGonagall looked at him, the corners of her mouth twitching upward, as Harry suddenly blushed. Well of course it would be a witch's hat.

A tiny hole appeared in the brick tapped by Professor McGonagall's wand, right at the tip of the hat. The hole quickly and smoothly expanded throughout the brickwork revealing a world of colour and sound in the blink of an eye. Harry didn't even notice the delicate swans atop two twisting pillars, flanking the entrance, as it hit him. Every sense was battered and it took a few seconds standing and swaying at the entrance to get used to it. By the time he was able to focus on which sense he wanted to pay attention to, he saw Professor McGonagall standing before him in long, emerald green robes, offering to take his hand and guide him further into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. He saw the invitation into the wizarding world - into his parents' world - and stepped forward to take the professor's hand.

Professor McGonagall stopped every few steps to accommodate Harry being dazzled by yet another display of sorcery or distracted by an odd curio. She bore this with kind patience, smiling and nodding at the boy's gushing exclamations. Not a single shop escaped his notice on the way to the gleaming marble bank, whether it was the apothecary with its racks and jars of ingredients or the post office with owls bound for various domestic and international destinations as frequently as half-hourly for the Ministry of Magic.

The professor took his arm and Harry realised that he ought to be sensible within the bank. As the two entered the shade offered by the roof overhang, the armoured goblin bowed. Harry nodded back politely. He could do sensible. Professor McGonagall's warning was backed up by the words on the inner doors of the bank. The goblins were clearly not to be messed with and he certainly wouldn't want them thinking he was going to steal anything. Professor McGonagall pushed the inner doors open to reveal the opulent main hall of the bank.

Barring their way was a further line of goblins, scowling menacingly at all who entered. They joined the end of a short queue who were slowly being allowed forward. A goblin in a sharp suit methodically ran a plain, gold rod across each person, waving them through when satisfied. Harry smirked when one wizard's mutterings of disgust earned him a few jabs of the rod in uncomfortable places. He was sure the suited goblin gave him a wink in return.

Thanking the goblins for letting them pass, Harry rejoined Professor McGonagall and they proceeded to another goblin perched high behind a tall desk, measuring the weight of a small, silver figurine. As the goblin looked at the result with a tilted head, it reached out and licked the figurine.

"Excuse me," Professor McGonagall said. "We would like to access Mr Potter's vault." The goblin exchanged the figurine for a quill and scratched some marks into a giant ledger.

"Does Mr Potter have his key?" the goblin asked.

"I've been holding onto it for him," Professor McGonagall explained as she fished out a tiny golden key from her pocket.

"Very well. Please take a seat over there, Mr Potter. Your account manager will be with you shortly. He is currently assisting another family within the vaults." Harry and the professor thanked the goblin for its guidance and walked towards the line of ornate chairs at the back of the hall. Around the chairs were doors leading deeper into the bank and Harry watched as families were guided in and out by various goblins.

As the pair approached the chairs, Professor McGonagall recognised someone who was being led out of a door. The woman looked even sterner than the professor and was pulling a fur-lined coat closer around her. The most striking aspect of her clothing, however, was her hat which threatened to come off her head as it brushed the top of the doorway. For some reason, it had a stuffed bird attached to it. It looked like some kind of crow or eagle.

"Augusta," Professor McGonagall greeted. The two stern women exchanged what Harry presumed was supposed to be a kiss on each cheek, but which seemed to be a kiss in the air while they bumped cheeks. Noticing a round-faced boy standing quietly behind Augusta, Harry smiled and waved at him. The boy attempted a smile and his hand twitched slightly.

"Ah, Minerva. A pleasure. I take it you're here on Hogwarts business. Who do you have today?" Augusta peered down at Harry and he saw her eyes widen as they flickered up to his forehead.

"Yes, it's Harry, Alice's godson," the professor replied, jumping in before Augusta continued.

"Marvellous," Augusta said, beaming. She turned slightly. Harry followed her gaze to a goblin who was standing unobtrusively next to the four customers. He hadn't even noticed it there. "Thank you for your services, Griphook. I wouldn't wish to keep you from your duties." The goblin bared his teeth at the dismissal, but otherwise appeared unfazed.

"I thank you for your concern, Madam Longbottom, but as luck would have it Mr Potter is my next client," Griphook said.

"Very well," Augusta said, eyebrows raised. "It seems we share an account manager. You're in good hands. I won't keep you any longer. Best of luck at Hogwarts, Mr Potter."

"Thank you, Mrs Longbottom," Harry said, reaching up to shake Augusta's hand. The lady shook it with an approving nod of her head. Harry missed the sparkling of her eyes as he pulled his gaze down to the boy beside her. "See you at Hogwarts, Mr Longbottom." Halfway through his farewell, Harry had realised that he hadn't heard the boy's name mentioned and opted for the least awkward approach. The Longbottom boy shook hands with Harry, whispering something that sounded like him looking forward to it. Harry smiled encouragingly, glad to already have a potential friend.


	3. The Height of Inventiveness

-Chapter Three-

The Height of Inventiveness

"And then, of course, he asks the poor goblin what the point of all the Sickles and Knuts is!" Harry sighed and furiously sawed at the meat on his plate, shaking his head at Professor McGonagall's antics.

"I wish she wouldn't talk about me behind my back," he said. Neville, the young Longbottom boy, eyed the chunk of meat Harry was now waving has he spoke. "It's just so embarrassing." Neville nodded and continued to watch a drop of gravy fly onto the tablecloth.

"Why did you ask about the money?" Neville asked quietly, slipping a bean into his mouth. Harry wrinkled his forehead, then popped the beef into his mouth. He swallowed.

"Well, I was wondering why there were so many. When am I going to need Knuts, or even Sickles?" Neville looked confused.

"What if you wanted to buy a chocolate frog?" Neville asked.

"A what?" Harry asked.

"It's a sweet," Neville explained, "like Fizzing Whizzbees or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. They've each got a Famous Witches and Wizards Card in them. The first person to collect them all wins a prize."

"Right, well, ok," Harry said, taken aback. "I'm not saying there isn't a point in having a few of the smaller coins, but there's no need to have so many, especially if I'm just going to get more of them in change. I bet loads of things are overpriced so that shopkeepers don't have to give out as much change. Who'd want to work with those numbers, calculating how much change to give out?"

"I think there's a charm for that," Neville said with a smile. "Gran said it's one of the first ones you learn at Hogwarts."

With that, the two boys settled into a friendly conversation about Hogwarts. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall and Augusta, Neville's grandmother, were eating at a nearby table. The Leaky Cauldron was very busy during the lunchtime rush on a day just after the Hogwarts letters had gone out. This meant that it had been impossible to get a table of four for lunch and instead had needed to settle for two somewhat close tables of two. The tables were close enough that the conversation of the two women could be overheard by their charges, although they were careful to avoid giving away Harry's identity.

Augusta nodded her head towards the table where the boys were seated and the professor looked round. Neville was explaining something to Harry with a broad grin. In return, Harry was gesticulating wildly with a carrot. Both of them laughed and their eyes shone with mirth. Minerva was glad that she had arranged to have lunch with the Longbottoms while Harry was introducing himself to Neville. It would be good for him to settle in with at least one friend. It was even better that Harry would be re-establishing the long-standing bond between the two close families.

After lunch, the group of four went back to Diagon Alley so that they could shop for their school equipment. Augusta explained to Neville that she was Flooing back home to get something ready while he and Harry were being guided by Professor McGonagall. Both boys looked thrilled to be able to spend more time with each other, each in their own particular way; Harry's eyes lit up, and Neville turned pink and smiled. Augusta thanked Minerva and headed back through the entrance to the Alley.

"Right," the Professor said, turning to the two boys, "do you have your lists?" Neville pulled his list and held it out. Harry's face fell and he shook his head.

"I- I didn't have time to get it when we left," he said quietly.

"Have you checked your coat pocket, Mr Potter?" Harry frowned, but checked the pocket of the strange, new coat.

"How-?" Harry's hand closed around the familiar, crumpled parchment and pulled it out. Professor McGonagall winked. Harry turned questioningly to his new friend. Neville shrugged and blushed.

Harry remembered first seeing the shop on his journey from the Leaky Cauldron to the bank. It was one of the least impressive shops in appearance, but it was the contents of the shop which appealed to the curious newcomer to the wizarding world. The lettering on the façade of the shop was old and peeling, although it was in pretty good nick for a shop present since 382BC. That said, it was just when the first Ollivander began to sell wands, so perhaps the premises were just the regular kind of old.

Wands, however, were the key to magic. Both Harry and the rather faded Mr Ollivander agreed on this point. Ollivander talked about wands with utter reverence, whereas Harry thought, in a more practical sense, back to needing a wand to even enter the Alley. It was like a secret club, where you could only join if you were invited by a current member. Thus it was that Ollivander could get away with having such a dull and drab shop. Harry hadn't spotted any other wand shops along the alley, at least between the pub and Gringotts.

Ollivander looked deep into Harry's eyes as a little tape measure began whizzing around, taking measurements of all different parts of Harry's body. It had begun with measuring the different parts of his arm and hand, once he had indicated his wand arm. The old wandmaker realised that the little tape measure was getting somewhat overenthusiastic when it tried to measure the distance between his temples, breaking the eye contact.

"Enough," he said sharply and strode back into the depths of his shop. Harry looked around as he waited for Ollivander to return, his eyes resting on the many thin boxes haphazardly weighing down the dusty shelves. Each box had a little label on it with three symbols, which he presumed represented the qualities of the wand. The first symbol was always a vertical line with other lines coming from it, sometimes on one side or the other, sometimes straight through. The third symbol looked like the phases of the moon, from a full circle all the way to a dot to represent the new moon. Harry couldn't see any pattern behind the middle symbol.

Finally, Ollivander returned with a few wands. Harry looked at the labels to see if there was any pattern to the first selection. The moon symbol seemed to be a running theme. If Harry remembered correctly what he'd read about astronomy, the symbols were mostly waxing gibbous - a shape that was just off a full circle. This continued to be the case throughout the visit, with the pile of discarded wands growing ever higher as Harry failed to form a bond with any so far. The wandmaker muttered things like "Maybe rowan, for Charms and magical theory" and "Definitely not hazel, a shame for Divination" whenever a wand was added to the pile.

Finally, Harry was united with a wand. He could tell that it was the right one from the moment he touched it. It seemed that Ollivander could, too, as he didn't immediately snatch the wand from his hand. Producing sparks, he looked at Professor McGonagall, who gave him a nod of approval. He recalled what Ollivander had said about the wand just before handing it to him. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.

"Curious... How very curious..." Ollivander was muttering to himself as he watched the young wizard inspect his new wand.

"Sorry, sir, but what's curious?" Harry asked. Ollivander's eyes flickered to Harry's forehead, then higher to Professor McGonagall before he refocused his gaze on Harry's eyes.

"Ah, forgive an old man his musings, Mr Potter," the wandmaker said. "When one has been in the business of wands as long as I, he finds nearly all things curious. You should be pleased with your wand, though, Mr Potter. You will do great things with it. It should work wonders for all manner of restorative tasks."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said with a smile. He took seven Galleons from his pocket and gave them to the wandmaker, who turned to Neville.

"And what about you, young man?" Ollivander asked. Neville blushed deeply and mumbled something. Ollivander quirked an eyebrow.

"I think Mr Longbottom said that he already has a wand," Professor McGonagall said. Ollivander's eyebrows shot into his hairline.

"Are you sure, Mr Longbottom? It doesn't seem to be the case that a wand has chosen you as its master yet. Who did you buy the wand from?" Neville looked firmly at his feet and continued to mumble. Harry thought he heard the word 'father' within the mumbling. Professor McGonagall put a comforting hand on the shoulder of the round-faced boy.

"Never mind, Mr Ollivander," the professor said. She began to steer Neville back towards the shop door.

"But, madam, a wizard should always have their own wand. Wands of family members may have some sentimental value, but all good wandmakers know that they won't work as well as they should. As a professor yourself, surely you want young Mr Longbottom here to be able to perform as well as possible in lessons?" The professor sighed at this.

"I'm sorry, Mr Ollivander, but Mr Longbottom is not here to buy a wand," she said. Harry was dismayed.

"I'll buy Neville a wand," Harry offered with shining eyes.

"That's not your job, Mr Potter," the professor replied, shaking her head.

"But I want to. Neville's my friend." Neville's head shot up. He looked at Harry.

"Y- You want to be friends?" he asked.

"Of course I want to be friends with you, Neville," Harry said, crossing his arms. "Who wouldn't?" He turned to Ollivander. "Neville would like a wand, sir." Professor McGonagall passed her hand over her eyes and sighed as the old man sprang back into the depths of his shop with more grace than Harry thought possible.

Neville's search for a wand was simplicity itself in comparison to Harry's marathon effort. He nearly bounced out of the shop with a cherry and unicorn hair wand, pronounced 'practical' by the expert wandmaker. It was exactly the same length as Harry's, but much sturdier. Ollivander had called it 'unyielding'.

"Consider it a birthday present," Harry had said to stem Professor McGonagall's grumblings about unnecessary purchases. "When's your birthday?"

"Two days ago," Neville said.

"Perfect!"

The temperature in Diagon Alley had dropped with the sun's disappearance below the high rooftops of the shops. Only the occasional bar of sunlight shone across the cobbles as the wall of shops was broken up by rare side alleys and passages. A black-haired boy was coming out of Eyelops Owl Emporium with a grin on his face, his arm around a blushing round-faced boy and a snowy owl in a cage held by his free arm. A stern-looking witch was following them out, struggling to maintain her expression.

Neville had plucked up the courage to pull Harry into the musty-smelling shop, determined to pay Harry back for the wand. He had found out that Harry's birthday had been the previous day while they had talked in Madam Malkin's. Neville had only been jabbed by one pin while getting his school robes fitted, so he'd considered that a success. Harry was overjoyed at Neville's selection of an almost glowing snowy owl. Professor McGonagall had looked at her watch as Neville paid for the owl and Harry added a few sickles for some owl treats.

"You've got everything on your lists," she began, "but I think there's enough time for the two of you to quickly look around one shop each." Harry held his hand up towards Neville, waiting for a high-five. Seeing that Neville was both baffled and a little frightened, Harry explained the Muggle concept.

Harry let Neville choose first and the young Longbottom immediately made a beeline for a pretty little glass-fronted shop. He pushed on the green-painted door, with Harry and the professor trailing after him. Professor McGonagall could immediately see why Neville had chosen to come into this particular shop. Augusta had told her about his love of gardening, where he often put the family's house-elf to shame, and it was no surprise that this shop was filled with the fresh scent of greenery. The lack of even a hint of dung revealed that odour-neutralising charms were in place around the central table, above which a sign cheerfully announced that one could 'Mix your own fertiliser - twelve Sickles a bag!' in curly green text.

Around the walls were windows, beyond each of which was a natural scene. Some were brightly lit, some were almost in complete darkness, and yet others were a view of dappled shade. Harry marvelled at the magic of each display; each scene extended impossibly beyond the walls of the shop. He had his nose pressed against one of the displays, looking to see how far the scene stretched, when the spiked tentacles of a particularly ugly-looking plant tapped on the glass. Harry jumped back, nearly into the fertiliser table. Neville, however, looked longingly at the plant taking centre stage in each window or, in the case of the Shrinking Violets, hiding behind all they could. After an animated discussion with the witch behind the counter, Neville came away with a single seed wrapped in a sheet of parchment.

Harry had chosen Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment as the last port of call on the adventure in Diagon Alley. From what little he had seen and heard so far, this shop promised to display the latest and greatest wizarding inventions. Harry's mind bubbled with curiosity at what he might find. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The biggest section of goods focused on housework and convenience around the home. Harry skimmed over the self-heating pans, enchanted scrubbing brushes and self-iron shirts. His gaze lingered only briefly on a sign under some knitting needles which said 'Knit a Bother - Patterns sold separately.' He wanted to see the absolute pinnacle of magical inventiveness and creativity. Surely the wizarding world was faring better than the Muggles.

Despite the number of people shopping in Diagon Alley at this time of year, there were few shoppers in Wiseacre's. Most of them were perusing a section dominated by different types of quill. Harry was drawn by the relative popularity through the household area and he peered at the signs explaining each product. Self-inking quills were a must for Hogwarts, and he even persuaded Neville to buy one. Other students were deciding whether to get spell-checking, colour-changing or Quick Quotes varieties. Two students were having a debate on what colour their quill should be, using the shop's free colouring service. One thing they both agreed on was that acid green was most certainly not a good colour to pick.

Professor McGonagall was checking her watch when Harry made it round to the more esoteric items. This was what he was looking for; there had to be something impressive here. He read through each explanatory sign carefully to see if there was something that would catch his discerning eye. Neville picked up a Remembrall, which the sign helpfully told him would fill with red smoke if he had forgotten something.

"This would be great if it could tell me what I'd forgotten," Neville said sadly as the glass ball filled with red smoke. Harry agreed that it was a very niche item with limited usefulness, but he decided to buy one when he spotted strange symbols inscribed on the inside of the gold ring which circled the glass ball and split it into two halves. He wanted to investigate that writing later. Similarly, he bought a pocket square which would change colour if you tapped it twice. He had no intentions of wearing it, but he was interested in the magic behind it. He was disappointed, however, that there was nothing terribly useful or interesting in the shop.

The professor raised an eyebrow when the boys left with their final purchases. She'd had a lot of practice in not being judgemental or influencing the new first-year students in her many decades of working for the school, but some students really tested her resolve. Harry Potter had made some bizarre purchases, but it was his money to spend. She sighed and composed herself once more.

"That's all we have time for, today," she said. Neville continued to smile, satisfied with his day.

"I guess I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express, Harry," Neville said, extending a hand towards Harry in farewell. Harry looked at it in horror. How could he survive another month with the Dursleys now that he'd seen all this?


	4. Spit in This Cup

-Chapter Four-

Spit in This Cup

Seeing that Harry wasn't going to shake his hand, Neville let it fall to his side. His eyes lost the sparkle that had built up over the day and he visibly sagged. Professor McGonagall turned back to the boys, having been looking along the Alley, as though waiting for something. Grimacing, she squatted down so she was at the boys' eye level. She quickly clapped Neville on the upper arms and gave him a meaningful look before turning to Harry.

"What is it?" she asked, cupping Harry's face and looking into his eyes. She thought for a moment. "Is it about going home?" Harry's breath caught and his eyes flickered, focusing on the professor in front of him. He nodded. "Listen to me, Mr... Harry. I will not let you go back to those people. It's something I should have done a long time ago. I will do everything in my power to keep you away from them."

"As will I." Harry, Neville and the professor looked up to see Augusta Longbottom standing over them. Minerva flashed her a quick smile.

"How about we tell you the plan on the way?" the professor asked. Harry nodded again and consented to be led by the hand.

#

Harry coughed and spluttered, patting the ground around him. Quickly, his fingers closed around his glasses and he pressed them back onto his face. With those honed reflexes, he took in a rough layout of the room and those in it. He registered the wide staircase opposite a grand door flanked by high windows. Other doors led further into the building, most of which were wide open. An imposing woman stood a little way away with an eyebrow raised while a boy was approaching the spot where Harry was sprawled. Behind, Professor McGonagall was emerging from green flames in the marble fireplace.

Harry shuddered. What a horrible way to travel. As a hand was extended towards him, he drew back warily. Neville's eyebrows drew together and Harry mentally shook himself as he began to understand his position.

"Thanks," he said as he took Neville's hand. Neville pulled him to his feet and Harry brushed himself down. "Hey, I'm sorry about earlier." He extended his hand once more and Neville looked at it, smiling.

"No problem," Neville said, shaking Harry's hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. What the heck was that?"

"Floo powder," Neville explained. "It's the easiest way to get around. Was that your first time?" Harry nodded. "Yeah, my first time was awful. I fell into a table at the Leaky Cauldron and got covered in Gillywater. You're so much better than me already."

Professor McGonagall straightened as she left the fireplace and cast a quick cleaning charm over her robes. She looked over at Augusta, who seemed to have drawn herself up as Neville reassured Harry, pride burning in her eyes. The two women shared a look as Neville began to pull Harry towards the back of the house and Augusta motioned towards the drawing room. A steaming pot of tea and two cups were already in place when they sat down.

"Thank you for this, Augusta. I just had to do something." Augusta waved a hand at the professor.

"No thanks necessary," she said. "Goodness knows the two of them would have grown up together if Lily and James hadn't... if they were still here. Where's he been all this time?"

"His aunt and uncle," Professor McGonagall said, her lips curling in disgust.

"Whatshername - Petunia? Surely not. Lily would never have wanted that." Augusta paused halfway through pouring the professor a cup of tea. "Alice was... Is his godmother, you see."

"And Sirius Black is his godfather." Both women looked into their cups and sighed. "I can't believe they'd specify those awful people in their will."

"Me neither, but I wasn't there for the will reading. I'm sure you can understand."

"Of course," Professor McGonagall said. The pain in Augusta's eyes was clear, no matter how long she had practiced her stoic demeanour. "I'm sure we can find out later. His aunt and uncle certainly won't complain that he's not tainting their perfect lives with abnormality." Augusta raised her eyebrows at the change in the professor's tone for that last sentence, and even further when she realised the significance of her choice of words.

#

"You what?" Harry exclaimed.

"Spit in this cup," Neville repeated, waving the grubby vessel in front of Harry's face. The raven-haired boy looked confused and was beginning to perspire in the heat of the greenhouse.

"I thought I heard you say you were going to bite me if I didn't look where I was going." Neville raised an eyebrow at this.

"Alright, enough sarcasm," he said. "I know it's an odd request. Just do it."

Harry shrugged. Perhaps this is what friends did. He dutifully spat into Neville's cup and the round-faced boy did the same. Harry let his focus wander back to their surroundings, grateful for the slight breeze between the open door and the propped-open windows. A plant at the far end seemed to be chained to a pole embedded into the floor. It was clearly straining against its bindings and towards the nearest window. Another plant had small weights attached at regular points along its stems and a number of small fruits were pointing straight upwards, as though dangling towards the ceiling. None of the plants in this greenhouse were in the garden at Privet Drive.

Neville's interest in plants was certainly understandable. Indeed, gardening was Harry's favourite chore. It took him as far away from the Dursleys as possible, for one. If he was out of sight, they would usually forget about him for a while. Moreover, the plants had nothing against him. They didn't ask him to do anything, nor scold him when he did something wrong. No weed would beat him because he'd dug it up. No bush would bear a grudge from being pruned too heavily. A flower wouldn't shriek at the discomfort of being repotted. Still, Harry wasn't sure the same could be said for any of Neville's bizarre plants.

After Neville folded a piece of parchment and tucked it into his pocket, the two boys walked around the extensive gardens. Harry listened to his new friend talking about the various plants they passed and the places he liked to sit and be alone. Warmth filled Harry's chest as Neville let him into those secrets. He always had an appreciation of somewhere you could truly be alone and undisturbed. He heeded Neville's words when he was warned where not to go and what not to touch, realising at the same time why there had been a line painted halfway across the greenhouse. There were some places where even Neville wasn't allowed.

"Mistress would like young master Neville and his friend to know that dinner is ready." The two boys were sitting by a small pond, watching dragonflies skim across the surface, when a small creature suddenly appeared with this message. Harry had jumped at the creature's appearance and had scrambled back towards a gently fluttering bush.

"What was that?" he asked when the creature had vanished, just as suddenly as it had appeared.

"That was Bolly," Neville said. Seeing Harry's continued confusion, he continued to explain. "She's a house-elf. She helps around the house with all the cleaning and cooking and gardening and fixing things and stuff. Sometimes she lets me help her plant things out here."

"But she looked so happy," Harry murmured, furrowing his brow.

"Of course she is," Neville said, pulling Harry to his feet. "House-elves love to help and, to us, she's part of the family. Gran always taught me to treat house-elves with respect, but I never understood why anyone wouldn't." Harry sighed wistfully. Before today, he would have given anything to be like the house-elf, especially as he had been serving the same purpose since he was six.

#

"Has Neville shown you around the whole house?" Augusta asked when Harry had finished putting food onto his plate.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry replied. "You have a lovely home and your garden is amazing." Neville blushed and beamed at his plate.

"You're kind to say so. I do hope you will find it an adequate place to stay until you go to Hogwarts." Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Have you decided on anything you might like to do while you're here?"

"If you'll let me," Harry said, "I'd like to spend some time in your library and learn about magic."

Indeed, Harry spent much of August in the Longbottom library reading about his parents' world. Neville often accompanied him when he read through the Hogwarts first year textbooks. He occasionally read through _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ while Harry was reading more general texts about the wizarding world, drinking in the images of plants and accompanying information over and over again. Harry smirked when he imagined Neville sleeping with the book on his pillow each night.

When Neville had shown Harry to his room after dinner on the first night, Harry had stopped at the door. The walls were painted a deep, mossy green and, along with the dark brown wood of the furniture, made Harry feel as though he was looking into a tree. The room was about the size of Dudley's room back at Privet Drive and even had a similar bed.

"I'm sorry it's not much," Neville began, his face falling at Harry's reaction.

"A bed..." Harry whispered. Neville spun around to look at him, eyebrows quirked in an unspoken question. Harry blushed; he hadn't realised he'd said that out loud. It would have been even more embarrassing if he had noticed, at that moment, the perfectly Harry-sized clothes carefully arranged in the furniture, but it was all thankfully closed. "It's lovely," he reassured Neville loudly. He bounced over to the window to look at the view. The garden looked different from higher up and more of the underlying pattern to its layout could be seen. The greenhouse seemed to be the only straight lines in a world of sinuous and looping curves.

Often, when Neville went to tend to some of the plants outside and in the greenhouse, Augusta would invite Harry into the drawing room. He enjoyed the discussions they had as they often centred around his parents. The tea and biscuits were also a treat, only getting better when Bolly the house-elf learned that his favourite sweet treat was treacle tart. This simple fare was a welcome change from the food at dinner, which tended to be a bit rich and heavy for the diet he was used to.

"I understand you were introduced to your vault for the first time when we met in Gringotts," Augusta began. Throughout their conversations, Harry had come to understand that Madam Longbottom began with an observation, where she would gauge the direction of their chat by the response he gave to this opening.

"Yes, ma'am. I've never seen so much money in my life," Harry replied.

"The biggest fortune often diminishes fastest," Augusta said wisely.

"I don't know what I could possibly spend all that money on."

"You'd be surprised," Augusta said as she took a sip of her tea. "But equally, you'd be surprised at how much it can grow. As much as you could live your entire life just on that money in your vault, you're going to want to earn money somehow. It was a challenge passed down the generations of Potters that you should leave the vault with more money than it started with. Do you think you could do that?" Harry nodded, determined to live up to the expectations of his ancestors.

"I certainly want to try," Harry promised. Augusta gave him a wide, genuine smile. Harry blushed and covered his embarrassment by taking a large gulp of tea.

"Did you see anything in the vault besides the money?"

"No, ma'am. We only had time to get some money and I couldn't see behind it all."

"Remember to have a look the next time you go to Gringotts. They don't just store money and I'd hate for you to go through your life not seeing what else might be in your vault." Harry nodded in agreement.

Harry enjoyed his conversations with Augusta, even when he felt he was being x-rayed by her stern and calculating gaze. The topics ranged from basic theories of magic and the different subjects taught at Hogwarts to wizarding history and politics. He didn't enjoy their conversations about his past, but feeling indebted to the Longbottoms helped the earlier conversations about the Dursleys and, eventually, Harry found it easier to talk about them.

Quite often, he would start reading books in the library based on their chats and, sometimes, they were guided by what Harry had read previously. Neville didn't always understand Harry's interest in the wide-ranging topics of the books he read, and he certainly didn't know how Harry kept himself from being bored, but the boys spent enough time together to form a strong friendship. They were both relatively quiet boys, which both Augusta and Bolly appreciated, so neither one dominated in their interactions.

"Umm, Harry," Neville said as he approached the guest in the library. Harry looked up and smiled at his host. "Gran says we should get ready for school. We'll be going early in the morning." Harry thought back to the letters they had received a couple of days ago, containing only tickets to the Hogwarts Express. Augusta had noted that they wouldn't need to bring the tickets with them; they were meant to be kept as mementos of their entry into the school, as well as a reminder for Muggle-raised students. A lot of magical families had homes in and around London due to their proximity to Kings Cross station, but the Longbottom house was still quite a way out.

"How are we getting there?" Harry asked. His forehead creased at the thought of having to take the Floo again.

"Gran's arranged a car with the Ministry." Harry knew all about Madam Longbottom's influence within the Ministry from his time in the drawing room. He was glad that they would be travelling in ways he was used to. Wizarding travel, though convenient and fast, was in no way focused on comfort.

"Brilliant," Harry said. "Let me just get to the end of this bit."

#

The big clock at the centre of Kings Cross reminded the crowds of busy travellers that it was twenty minutes past ten. To the Longbottom party, and to any other magical folk, this told them that the Hogwarts Express would be leaving in forty minutes and that they had plenty of time to casually pass through the ticket barrier between platforms nine and ten. Harry grinned when he saw the ornate metal sign which displayed the platform number, so unlike the plastic numbers on all the ordinary platforms.

Augusta had bid the boys farewell and left once she had seen them onto the train, making sure Neville still had his toad, Trevor, before she went. They had chosen a compartment far from the entrance to the platform, knowing that it would be the less crowded end of the train. Letting out a sigh when they saw that their stern guardian had left, the two boys relaxed and lay across the seats of the compartment. They had almost drifted off to catch up on the sleep denied to them by their early morning when there was a loud tutting noise.

"Such a lack of decorum, Mr Longbottom," someone said. Both Harry and Neville shot up. Standing at the door were two girls. The girl in the centre of the doorway had dark ginger hair and a wicked smirk, whereas the pink-faced girl behind her was blonde and had a nervous expression.

"Susan!" Neville exclaimed, finally sitting up properly. The ginger girl smiled and took the seat next to him.

"Auntie told me you'd be at this end. I think your gran said something. Oh, this is Hannah." Hannah shyly entered the compartment when Susan introduced her and sat down when Harry moved to accommodate her.

"Did you have a good holiday?" Neville asked. Susan managed to look both delighted and embarrassed.

"It was great!" Susan gushed. "I'm sorry I didn't get to see you for so long. Auntie had been saving up her holiday days for ages and we won't have as much time together now I'm going to Hogwarts."

"Don't worry about that," Neville said, waving her off. "I had Harry here for company."

"Harry?" Hannah asked, looking at him sitting beside her. Harry wore his best smile and held out his hand.

"Harry Potter. It's a pleasure to meet you." Harry decided to shake the hands of the girls rather than kissing their hands as custom dictated. There was enough time to get used to that later, if necessary.

"_The_ Harry Potter?" Hannah asked, eyes wide and roving towards his forehead.

"Hannah!" Susan hissed. "Leave him alone!" Harry gave Susan a wry smile of gratitude.

"Sorry," Hannah said sheepishly. "So which house does everyone think they'll be in?"

"House?" Harry asked. Susan looked at him with an odd expression, her head tilted.

"Yeah," said Hannah, "like your Hogwarts house. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, you know..." Harry shook his head, baffled at the list of nonsense words. "It's like your team, especially for Quidditch, but you have all your classes with your house and there's a competition between them with a trophy and stuff."

"Quidditch is that sport played on broomsticks, right?" Harry asked, turning to Neville for confirmation. Inspecting Trevor, rather than turning to Harry, he nodded.

"How do you not know about the houses and Quidditch?" Susan asked. Harry began to feel uncomfortable and frustrated. Couldn't they talk about something else?

"It might surprise you to learn," Harry replied hotly, "that I wasn't told about magic until a few weeks ago. Can we just move on?" Neville and the girls all had the decency to look embarrassed and Susan realised that she was being a bit insensitive. She opened her mouth to apologise, but Neville got there first.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "I should have told you about all this."

The four grew quiet as they waited the last few minutes until the train was ready to depart. The platform had got very crowded since they had arrived, even at their far end of the train, and steam had begun to billow past the window in great clouds. Harry was facing in the direction the train was headed, so it was Neville who saw the hands of the other students stretching out of the windows, waving goodbye to the crowds on the platform. He turned to Harry, Hannah and Susan.

"Hey. Whatever house we're in, we'll all be friends, right?"


	5. The Chamber Snake

-Chapter Five-

The Chamber Snake

As Professor McGonagall left, Harry was glad that he had already made friends. The stern witch had told the nervously shuffling group of first years that they would soon be sorted into their houses. This was permanent; there was no going back. Part of him wished that Professor McGonagall had told him about the houses so that he would know which ones were the good ones. The rest of him didn't want to know, just in case he'd be disappointed at where he'd be sorted. It didn't come as a surprise that the professor hadn't told him, though; he remembered that she'd left the promised conversation about his parents to Madam Longbottom.

Looking around, he caught the eyes of Neville, Hannah and Susan. They each exchanged encouraging smiles, confident in their vows of friendship, no matter what houses they were in. With any luck, they'd all be sorted into the same house. Harry calculated that it would be a one in sixty four chance - a little over one percent. He started running the numbers on how likely it would be that they all joined different houses, but was brought back to Earth by a scream. Looking around, Harry saw that a handful of ghosts had floated through one of the walls, engaged in a discussion about something called Peeves.

"I hope to see you in Hufflepuff," the ghost of a jolly priest said when the translucent group had noticed the more substantial crowd. He seemed nice. Perhaps every house had a lovely ghost to help the new students settle in. Harry imagined what it would be like to be a ghost. He decided that he would like to haunt a library, so that he could spend the rest of eternity learning and helping to pass on the knowledge of how things worked.

"Come along," said Professor McGonagall, making the students jump as much as the ghosts had, "they're ready for you, now."

The mouths of the first years dropped open in unison as they were led through the great oaken doors into the hall. Every aspect of the room evoked an emotion. The long tables full of students made the newcomers afraid, not having been around so many unfamiliar people before. The long walk to the front of the hall filled the group with trepidation and self-consciousness. The first years felt a sense of wonder at the ceiling, which looked like the night sky. One bushy-haired girl commented, as a wispy cloud scudded by, that the ceiling had been enchanted to look like the sky outside. Harry was intrigued by the floating candles, some bobbing up and down, others perfectly still, as though the spectacle was the creation of a slightly disorganised group of people.

Quickly, the students to be sorted were made to gather in front of a small stool, upon which was a rather tatty old hat. _Welcome to Scruffhats School of Stitchcraft and Millinery_, Harry thought with a smirk. Although he hadn't made the joke out loud, he automatically turned to look at Neville. The boy still had his toad. Neville had been grateful every time Harry had caught Trevor on the way out of their compartment, if somewhat tired of the situation by the end of the train journey. It would have been embarrassing to have had to search the entire train for a fugitive toad, but Harry knew that all four of them would have searched together as a team. Neville returned Harry's smirk with a small smile, distinctly less reassuring than earlier. Suddenly, both boys' heads whipped around to face the hat on the stool. It had started singing, of all things.

Hannah was the first to be called when the hat had finished its song. She paled immediately and, with shaking steps, mounted the dais and lowered herself onto the stool. Professor McGonagall put the hat onto her head and, within a couple of moments, it yelled, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The hall erupted in cheers and Hannah was pointed towards the table of students bearing the yellow crest. This was where most of the clapping was coming from and the ghost of a jolly monk was waving cheerily at her. Harry, Neville and Susan gave her a big thumbs-up and grinned. Loyal and patient certainly described Hannah.

"Bones, Susan." Susan's grin disappeared instantly. She seemed to steel herself and settled beneath the Sorting Hat with a look of grim determination. She stayed under the hat for a few seconds, but the hat was quickly lifted off her head after a shout of "HUFFLEPUFF!" Susan scuttled over to sit next to Hannah, nodding at the boys in response to their excited gestures.

The Sorting Hat often made its decision pretty quickly, but sometimes seemed to take a while to think. Harry didn't know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he felt embarrassed for the people who took longer than most. A heavyset girl called Millicent Bulstrode and a boy with a wicked grin called Seamus Finnegan both took around a minute to get sorted. They joined the "SLYTHERIN!" and "GRYFFINDOR!" tables respectively. Just like Hannah, every student was politely clapped by the hall in general when they were sorted, and even more enthusiastically congratulated by the table they joined. A bushy-haired girl getting sorted into Gryffindor made a red-haired boy on the other side of the group groan loudly. Charming. Thankfully, this was mostly drowned out by the applause. The school felt so welcoming. Neville was quickly called to the waiting hat. He wobbled slightly as he mounted the dais, but managed not to stumble. Harry flashed him a quick smile as the hat went down over the boy's eyes.

The much-smaller group of first years began to shuffle impatiently as they waited for Neville to be sorted. Harry noticed that he kept gripping the edges of the stool and his muscles kept twitching, as though he was straining not to make any gestures. Perhaps he and the Sorting Hat were having a conversation. When Neville relaxed, Harry could tell that the hat was about to announce his friend's house. He clapped along with the rest, excited to hear that Neville had been sorted into "HUFFLEPUFF!"

When "Parkinson, Pansy" got sorted into "SLYTHERIN!" Harry knew his time was close. He thought he might be next as surely there couldn't be many people with surnames beginning with P. However, he had to wait for "Patil, Padma," "Patil, Parvati," and even for "Perks, Sally-Anne" to be sorted into "RAVENCLAW!" before finally...

"Potter, Harry." It was time. As Harry stepped forward, it sounded as though the hall was full of snakes. He could hear the susurration as a hundred whispered conversations started up at the mention of his name. He tried to drown them out, particularly the snippets that he could understand. It was embarrassing enough to be sitting alone at the front of the hall wearing a silly hat in front of hundreds of strangers. He walked up to Professor McGonagall and saw her expression, softened almost imperceptibly. Sighing, Harry closed his eyes, turned and sat on the stool. He refused to look at the sea of eyes looking at him, necks craned to get a better angle, and preferred to imagine that he was alone, perhaps on a bench in the park.

"Hmm, difficult." Harry jumped at the voice suddenly speaking in his ear. "I see you've been making friends. That takes courage. Loyalty to keep them. Plenty of talent and a desire to prove that. But where should I put you?" There was a long pause. Harry waited politely. "Any thoughts?" the hat asked.

_I don't mind,_ Harry thought. _I'm sure all the houses are as good as each other._ He hadn't heard anything negative about any of the houses. Each house was given fair treatment whenever the topic had come up, as though nobody had wanted to prejudice him one way or another.

"That they are," that hat confirmed. "Well, if you're sure, I'll try to put you into the house where you'll make the most of yourself. No doubt about it, you'd better be in SLYTHERIN!"

The hat remained on Harry's head in silence for a few moments before it was slowly raised. He looked out, finally, at that sea of eyes and, unlike in his imagination, each pair was accompanied by a slack jaw. The reactions of the students were bizarre. Nobody else had been greeted by shocked silence. He stood and began to walk to the far left of the hall, to the table whose occupants wore green crests on their robes.

Halfway to the Slytherin house table, the first students and teachers began to clap. Slowly, the hesitant applause spread across the Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, then, with the green-clad students looking past him, sudden applause erupted from the Slytherin table. Harry reached his place and let out a sigh of relief. He gave the students around him a small smile and they each nodded to him. His new housemates seemed polite enough.

Harry looked across the hall towards the Hufflepuff table. Neville, Hannah and Susan had their heads together, whispering about something. He caught Hannah's eye as she briefly looked up and her eyebrows shot up. After she nudged the other two, Harry's three friends looked warily in his direction, making Harry shift uncomfortably. He shot the a questioning look, but they immediately looked away. His heart sank, but still he held onto the hope that perhaps they had mistaken his look for a scowl. Harry sighed and turned back to the front of the hall.

Now, as part of the main student body, the first year Slytherins paid polite attention to the sorting. Bubbling underneath, however, was an eagerness to move onto the next activity. Hopefully, it was lunch. Nevertheless, they hid any impatience better than the students newly sorted into the other three houses. If they had looked around the hall, they would have seen that they were hiding their impatience better than even some of the older students. Thankfully, there wasn't long to wait as "Zabini, Blaise" joined the "SLYTHERIN!" table. Harry put on his broadest grin and clapped enthusiastically to welcome another housemate to the table.

#

"Hi. I'm Harry." Harry extended his hand towards Blaise after everyone had taken enough food to fill their plates the first time and turned to conversation.

"Blaise. Pleased to meet you," the boy said with a smile. This started a round of introductions which revealed the fact that many of the new students already knew each other. Blaise and Tracey Davis seemed to be relative unknowns to the group, just like him, whereas others like Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson were well-acquainted with most of the others.

"Draco Malfoy," one blonde boy introduced himself. He gestured to the two rather large boys flanking him. "This is Crabbe and this is Goyle. My family's been in Slytherin for generations. I can help you settle in, if you like." He reached over a plate of sausages, towards Harry.

"Delighted to meet you," Harry replied, shaking Draco's hand. "That would be great. I take it that Slytherin is a good house to be in, then?"

"Most certainly," Draco replied. "Everybody with the right connections gets sorted into Slytherin and, for those who don't, joining our house will provide that extra boost to get ahead in later life. Much of the Wizengamot and many of the higher positions in the Ministry are filled by Slytherins." Harry decided to grin as though relishing the opportunities, rather than displaying his limited knowledge of the wizarding world by asking what the Wizengamot was. He was sure that Madam Longbottom had mentioned it during one of their conversations, but there had been such a lot of information coming at him in such a short amount of time.

"So, you'll know who the teachers are here?"

"Of course." Draco's eyes twinkled with excitement and a hint of smugness. "I'm sure you'll know the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. He's also the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Unfortunately, he was given all these positions for defeating Grindelwald and fighting against the Dark Lord, rather than for showing any skill in the job." He paused and flushed, his eyes flickering towards some of their fellow first years. Harry similarly glanced around the group and noticed Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass scowling at Draco. He decided to file that away for later pondering.

Draco quickly moved the conversation along and began to go through the teachers from one end of their table to the other. Harry was interested to learn of the different subjects taught at Hogwarts. Ancient Runes sounded like the perfect class to learn more about those weird symbols he'd spotted within the Remembrall, but he was disappointed to hear that it was only an elective taught from third year onwards. Charms sounded equally useful as it was involved in enchanting in later years, but it was once more a shame that the subject would be less useful to begin with. It seemed that Harry would have to be patient and learn the foundations of magic before he could make any progress on his areas of interest.

"The most important person after Dumbledore is Professor Snape, next to Quirrell. McGonagall might be the deputy headmistress, but Snape's our head of house. He teaches Potions, which can be really useful in the right situation, if you know what I mean." At Draco's description, Harry looked up at the teacher with curtains of slick, black hair. At the same time, the Potions professor looked in Harry's direction and a sharp pain shot through his scar. Harry quickly lowered his gaze to his food, but made sure not to reach up to his forehead. He could tell that Slytherin house wasn't a place to show any kind of weakness. Instead, he speared a sausage with his fork and dutifully shoved it into his face.

#

As much as the Slytherin first years were happy to inform Harry about Hogwarts, the Ministry and the wizarding world in general, they were remarkably reticent about themselves. By the time the last remnants of food magically vanished from their golden plates, Harry knew the names of his peers, who was proud to be a pureblood, that a number of them frequently met at parties hosted by their families and a few tales about prominent members of society they knew. He didn't know them in the same way as he had known Neville after sharing a meal. There were no stories of how they discovered or confirmed that they had magic or any tales of what they had got up to over the summer, both of which he had discussed with Neville before dessert in the Leaky Cauldron.

The students drowsily listened to Dumbledore as he relayed a final few notices. The edict that the Forbidden Forest was, as its name referenced, forbidden was greeted by a few chuckles from the Gryffindor table, particularly from a group of third years, where a pair of strikingly ginger heads were angled towards each other. A reminder from the school caretaker, who Harry had noticed scowling from one of the corners of the hall, was met with comparable silence. However, murmurs broke out at the mention of a corridor on the third floor being out of bounds on pain of death. Clearly this was an unusual notice, compared to the other two.

"How long before the first lot of Gryffindors are caught in that corridor?" Theodore Nott asked.

"I'd give them a week," Draco replied. "A month until one of them gets horrifically injured." Nott chuckled with a wide grin at Draco's last comment.

"Do Gryffindors not follow the rules?" Harry asked. Between Dumbledore's pointed comments and Draco's mock bet, he was starting to get a pretty comprehensive idea of the average Gryffindor student, one he wouldn't have put much stock in if it were just the opinion of a student as new as himself.

"Put it this way, Potter: Gryffindor's the only house I know of that's ever been in negative points before the end of the feast." Although she continued to look up towards the staff table, Harry could see Daphne shaking her head out of the corner of his eye. "You want to say something, Greengrass?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of saying anything to the contrary," she replied. Draco sat back, mollified. "However," she continued, "I'm sure one of those _rude_ Ravenclaws would say something inflammatory about you not knowing everything that's ever happened. Well, I'm certainly glad that none of them nave actually done that, as much as I would have relished you putting them in their place afterwards."

Draco spluttered, but was interrupted from his retort but a great clattering and a scraping of benches as the whole student body was dismissed from the great hall. The teachers were talking to each other at the staff table, occasionally looking at the departing students. To Harry, it was clear that they were discussing the new first years, although he couldn't see that they had much to discuss from just the Sorting Hat's house decisions. He looked over to the Hufflepuff table, but found that Neville, Susan and Hannah had already joined the group of new Badgers following their prefects to their common room.

The Slytherin first years were kept behind in the entrance hall until the rest of the school had moved on, so that their prefects could talk to them about the dungeons and how to navigate them. As in the great hall, the members of Slytherin house were showing their fondness for secrets. Just as the prefects began to speak, Harry resolved to do the same.

"A secret kept between more than two people is a secret no more. This is the first piece of wisdom given to new Slytherin students for over seven centuries. Those of you who take Arithmancy from third year will find that it's more accurate to say that the chances of a secret being found out are exponentially greater if more people know it, but unlike Ravenclaws, we Slytherins know the benefit of brevity over accuracy.

"Nevertheless, it's important that a lot of our secrets are known by all of us in the house. For example, it would be ridiculous if we refused to tell you where the common room was and how to get in. This is what we're going to tell you about now, but you must promise not to reveal our secrets to anybody. Indeed, you will find that there are many secrets within our noble house and those secrets being leaked could have dire consequences for large numbers of people. I must, therefore, ask you all to promise never to reveal the secrets of Slytherin."

"I promise," the first years chanted together. Satisfied, the prefect who had been speaking nodded and led the way past the grand staircase and down into the dungeons. On the way to the common room, the prefects gave advice, warnings and wisdom in equal measure.

"Professor Snape is our Head of House. He teaches Potions, which is also held down here in the dungeons. The dungeons themselves are heavily warded against damage, so it's the safest place for the subject to be held. The fact that it's useful to be close to your Head of House, combined with the extra protection that we also benefit from, makes the dungeons the perfect place for the Slytherin common room.

"The dungeons are designed to be like a labyrinth - difficult to navigate for those who don't belong down here. We're also not constrained by the castle walls down here, so the dungeons can be even bigger. You should memorise this route down to the common room, but it's not the end of the world if you struggle with finding your way. If you look at this stone here, you'll see a tiny snake disguised as cracks. These can point you in the direction of the common room, but they'll take you around a pretty long route. So you see, there are benefits to knowing the secrets of Slytherin.

"Although this wall might look just like every other stretch of wall in the dungeons, this is what conceals the entrance to our common room. A useful trick is to look at the torches at either end of the wall. If you look really closely, you might be able to see that the flames are perfectly symmetrical. That means they're the same on both sides. Fire doesn't behave like that, so it's a good sign that there's some weird magic going on. To get into the common room, just say the password: Perfection."

As the prefect uttered that final word, the section of wall slid aside, although Harry noticed that it would probably be more accurate to say that the section of wall got narrower and narrower until it was flat against the side of the entrance it had revealed. He figured that this was probably a simpler piece of magic than one that made one section of wall slide into another and occupy the same space. Putting that thought aside, he hustled into the Slytherin common room, not wanting to be left behind.

The common room in which Harry was going to spend the next seven years was, to be frank, rather gloomy. There was a lot of the same dank stone that made up the rest of the dungeon complex they had navigated to get there and the furniture was made from dark, foreboding materials, whether leather or wood. The portraits hung on the walls were darkened and indistinct. On the far wall, there was a large window, although it shed no light into the common room at all, the only light instead being provided by guttering candles throughout the chamber. It was odd that the scene outside was so dark, although Harry was sure he could see some shapes passing by every so often.

As grim and unwelcoming as the common room was, Harry felt his gaze drawn towards an alcove below the window. It wasn't surrounded with candles, nor was it blanketed in deep shadow. There was no movement to draw the eye and the colours of it and its contents were as muted as the rest of the place. Still, it seemed important.

"As you may have noticed," the prefect began once more, "there is an alcove at the end of this room containing a statue of a snake. Of course, the snake is the symbol of our house, favoured by the founder Salazar Slytherin himself, who could talk to snakes. This particular snake only appears once a year and, similar to the Sorting Hat, it will put you where you belong. One by one, you will commune with the chamber snake by placing your hands upon it. It will determine your worthiness as a Slytherin and, thus, where you will be sleeping. Some of you may be sleeping in the 'Heirs' chambers, most often reserved for the heirs of the most worthy families. The rest will be sleeping in the 'Allies' chambers, traditionally used by the supporters and staff who accompanied the heirs. Those deemed to be worthy of the 'Heirs' quarters will also discover one of the secrets of Slytherin house; one which the 'Allies' will have to work hard to discover."

One by one, as the prefect instructed, the first year Slytherins each walked up to the chamber snake and placed their hands upon it. Draco went first, closing his eyes as he touched the scales of the snake, smoothed by centuries of eleven-year-old hands. After a few moments, a small metal token materialised inside the snake's mouth. He cringed as he reached past the long, pointed fangs of the snake to retrieve the token. Once he had it, he looked at the inscription and smiled.

As the rest of the group did the same, one of the female prefects explained that the token would let them into their sleeping quarters if they had it in their possession. She also reiterated her counterpart's instructions that they were supposed to be a credit to their house and, to that end, be cunning. Those not cunning enough would find their tokens taken from them. They would have to bear the shame of approaching their head of house in order to obtain a new token. However, Professor Snape could only give out tokens for the 'Allies' quarters. She wished them luck.

Finally, Harry was the only one left to commune with the chamber snake. As he approached the statue, wondering whether he would be deemed worthy of entering the 'Heirs' quarters, he found himself roughly pushed away from the alcove. One of the older prefects, rather than one of the fifth year prefects who had guided them through the dungeons, stood in front of the chamber snake, blocking his path.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" the boy asked with a disdainful sneer. Harry looked at the boy, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words for a response. Images of the Dursleys flashed into the forefront of his mind. Sometimes, he had found there was no right answer to a question. Sometimes... Suddenly realising, he dropped his gaze to the floor, no longer looking at the older boy. "That's right. Bugger off."

The boy flicked a scratched token at his feet. In the silence of the common room, the ringing sound of it bouncing on the floor was excruciatingly loud. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the token came to rest just a few feet away, thankfully not rolling far away or under some of the furniture. He stepped over to it, bent down and picked it up, looking at its surface as he straightened. There, marred by gouges and tarnished with time, was the angular writing of the word 'Allies'. Harry turned, flushing as he noticed the rest of the first year Slytherins looking at him. Grinning, the older prefect tapped the chamber snake with his wand and the alcove sealed itself. It looked as though it had never been there and, potentially, never would be again.

"Now get to bed."


	6. Knowledge and Secrets

-Chapter Six-

Knowledge and Secrets

The first year Slytherins filtered out of the common room, leaving Harry standing where he was, staring at the scarred metal token. He didn't notice that a small number followed the six prefects through one door, whereas over half of them entered a door on the other side of the common room. He didn't notice the fire dying down, only a few flames remaining to lick around the unmarked logs. All he knew was that his hope had shattered. He had hoped that Hogwarts would be different. He had hoped that there wouldn't be any more Dudley Dursleys or Piers Polkisses or Dennis or Gordon or Malcolm or anybody like that. Well, if that was the way the world worked, then it would take a lot of effort to work around that. Perhaps, one day, he might figure something out that would make people just leave him alone, whether for his fame or as a target.

Finally, he looked up from the mocking word on the token. Allies. As if he'd ever ally himself with the bullies in the 'Heirs' quarters. That thought dissipated when he saw the common room. Suddenly, it looked nothing like it had before. It was now so much brighter and more colourful. Green was the predominant colour, rather than grey. There were bright, emerald-green drapes breaking up the wall, and upon that wall were the same portraits, but with their canvases no longer dark and obscured. Wizards of old dozed in their frames and wind blew through landscapes of verdant forest and lively marshes.

The leather of the chairs was a stately forest green, with warm, chocolatey mahogany wood, polished to a mirror shine. The desks and bookshelves were made from a similar wood, radiating warmth throughout the room. A beautiful crystal chandelier now hung from the ceiling, lighting up the chamber and burning away the shadows from its corners. Even the gloom of the scene outside the window was given a small amount of relief and Harry could make out the shapes of the occasional fish swimming past and the long tendrils of some kind of freshwater plant stretching up towards the surface of what was presumably the lake, waving lazily in the eddies of the water. Still, little light filtered through the window, although this was now due too the time of day.

Harry could no longer keep a yawn at bay; it had been a long day and a truly emotional rollercoaster. A lot of things had happened and he had so many questions, although he knew it would have to wait until the morning. Hopefully, he would be able to avoid those who wished him harm and, if he could just make it to the great hall, under the watchful eyes of the teachers, he would have no problems. It would be just like being back in primary school, where he had, every day, asked his teacher if her could stay inside for part of their lunch break and help out around the classroom. That had been a common way to avoid the sport of Harry hunting, although his teachers had been reluctant, as though they were worried about getting into trouble themselves, for some reason.

As soon as he thought about sleeping, he felt like he knew where to go to find his bed. He walked towards the door opposite the one entered by the prefects and some of his year, and opened it to reveal a passage barely wide enough for two people to walk along side by side. There were three doors on each side, plus one at the end, and it was to this end door that Harry automatically headed. Inside was an arched chamber, warmer than an underground, stone-lined room ought to be. Candles through warm light around the room and the forest green and chocolate mahogany theme of the common room was mirrored here. All in all, it was nowhere near as bad as the whole chamber snake debacle had suggested.

"Quite nice, this," Harry commented, seeing that Blaise, Tracey, Crabbe and Goyle were still awake.

"This?" Tracey asked with a raised eyebrow. "It's so dull and gloomy and, to top it all off, I have to share this room with four boys. That's just gross."

"I see what you mean," Harry said, sympathising with the odd unisex living quarters. "Give me a quick minute, Tracey." Harry went to Blaise first. The boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading the introduction to their Potions textbook. "Hey, Blaise. Could we have a quick chat outside?"

Blaise looked up to regard Harry's earnest expression. "Sure thing." He closed the Potions book and unfolded his legs.

"Could you help me get Crabbe and Goyle to come with us?" Blaise raised his eyebrows, then looked towards Tracey's part of the room. He nodded, then headed over to Crabbe.

#

When Harry woke up, he could hear the soft breathing of the other four. He wasn't surprised to find that they were all still asleep. Since he'd started to build the secret exit from his cupboard under the stairs, he had grown accustomed to having only a few hours of sleep. His body no longer needed it and he had trained his body to expect good things when he went to bed late or got up early. Thus it was that Harry changed in relative silence and left via the common room, glancing at the section of wall just under the big window as he passed.

After the first grey rays of sunlight rippling through the lake beyond the common room window, the next natural light he saw was in the entrance hall. He had remembered the route back through the dungeon labyrinth with ease and was wondering what to do before breakfast. As he reached the foot of the grand staircase, he decided to begin exploring the castle.

Harry went through the first floor of the castle methodically, making sure he always knew how to quickly get back to the great hall for breakfast. His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he looked around, accompanied only by the creaking of the doors he opened and the chirping of the recently-awoken birds. The number of unused classrooms seemed unusual for a school, but Harry was certain that there was once a need for each of them. Otherwise, there would have been no point in building so many rooms. Besides, there were clear signs of prior use in each classroom.

Scattered around the corridors and galleries were other rooms, each as intriguing and bizarre as the next. One of the more delightful rooms was full of huge painted landscapes, with the sounds of rustling leaves and trickling water coming from some unseen place. Another room was a long chamber lined with suits of armour, although each was missing one piece. A whole section were each missing their left arms.

The last room Harry entered was full of clocks. More accurately, it was full of timepieces as it held a large collection of hourglasses, sundials, candle clocks and water clocks, as well as the vast array of more traditional clocks. There was a slender pillar in the centre of the room and wide windows around all four walls, even though the room was in the centre of the castle. Harry noticed the marks on the floor and realised that the room itself was a giant sundial. He was just walking past a row of potted plants, only one of which was currently blooming, when he realised that most of the clocks were reading the same time: half past seven. He figured it was probably time - haha - to make his way to the great hall for breakfast.

As he approached the grand staircase, Harry heard the faint echoes of chatter and footsteps. The castle was waking up and students were beginning to flow back to its heart after a good night's sleep. He was one of the first to sit down to breakfast, a selection of which appeared around him as he touched the table. He was happy to see a number of lighter options as he still felt somewhat full after the feast the night before. He just wasn't used to having so much food.

The cereal falling into Harry's bowl, making a tinkling sound as the individual pieces hit the porcelain, was the closest to cornflakes he could find. They seemed safe enough and he was going to brave it. Just before he'd poured milk into the bowl, he noticed Professor Snape striding into the hall, his cloak billowing out behind him as only he seemed to be able to do. Having learned long ago to not let his food out of his sight, Harry picked up his bowl and a small jug of milk, then meandered up to the staff table.

"Excuse me, Professor," he said, clutching his cereal bowl to his chest.

The Potions professor leant forwards and looked at Harry's small form over the table. "Potter," he said, sneering. "What brings you and your... cereal... up here?"

Harry looked into Snape's menacing face, doubting all his reasons for approaching the menacing man. His heartbeat thumped through his entire body and he felt as though he was twitching to its tune. Why was he here anyway? As he looked into Snape's cold, black eyes, unable to look away, a face floated to the surface of his mind. It was Tracey's face. He was here for her. He blinked.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we need your help. You see, in our quarters we have four boys and one girl all together. We were wondering whether you could help to give Tracey some privacy. Us boys are happy to keep leaving the room so she can get changed, but I think Tracey would feel a lot more comfortable with even just a curtain or something. Please could you help, sir?" Harry took a deep breath and reinforced his grip on his breakfast. Snape looked at him with disdain.

"Get back to your table," he dismissed.

It was a few seconds before Harry stopped staring slack-jawed at his head of house. He was eventually spurred into movement by the man's eyebrow quirking up and he almost ran back to the closest end of the Slytherin table, his back to the wall. He added milk to his bowl and spooned cereal into his mouth, mechanically and without enthusiasm. He didn't even notice the way the cereal never got too soggy, even towards the end of the bowl. He finished. He stared into the bowl. He waited.

When the timetable skittered across the table to rest next to the bowl, Harry immediately snatched it up and strode along the edge of the hall to the doors, ignoring the staring eyes from all five tables. In the entrance hall, he passed handfuls of students, panic in their eyes and hair sticking up on one side. Unlike them, he was not going to be late and, with a minute amount of guidance from his timetable, ended up sitting in the back corner of the Charms classroom, reading his textbook and hoping nobody would spot him when they eventually arrived to the class.

#

After the diminutive Professor Flitwick calmly took the register, it took only ten minutes of their first forays into magical education to distract Harry from his troubles. Charms was the perfect class with which to begin their magical education as it was the most general, all-round application of magic at its most basic level. The first years began learning about the crucial components of a well-crafted spell: the wand movement, the incantation and the knowledge of the spell's effects. It all seemed rather straightforward and the group were brimming with confidence throughout their first lesson.

Using a quill was more difficult than writing with a Muggle pen. Across the classroom, the Muggle-born students could be identified by the blotches of ink on both the parchment and the desk, as well as the scratchy, angular writing, although a number of other students were similarly inept at the use of a quill. During those moments where the class were expected to be quietly taking down notes, the clinking of quills against inkpots seemed to echo around the classroom.

Harry was glad that he didn't have to waste time refilling his quill with ink. He worked with two pieces of parchment on the desk, unlike anybody else he could see. The first parchment looked very much like everybody else's, albeit with his notes being in a different hand. His second parchment was for writing down questions about the subject material. After his experience in asking Professor Snape a question, he had realised that questions would be tolerated no more than they were at the Dursleys and, just like back in Muggle primary school, he decided that he would have to look into answering his own questions. He hoped that there would be a library where he could research to his heart's content.

Loose sheets of parchment were sure to be a nightmare and there seemed to be no way of keeping them organised for now. Thinking of libraries, Harry therefore came up with a nifty reference system for his questions and ideas to research. Of course, right at the top was a way to organise loose sheets of parchment. That problem was only going to get worse over the next seven years. Under that, using a notation system that linked to his Charms notes, were his questions for research.

_C1.1: Knowledge of a spell's effects is important to being able to cast a spell. How did people do magic before the spells were invented?_

#

Herbology served as a nice break from the influx of knowledge on their first day. The class was held in massive greenhouses on the sunnier side of the castle and run by a dumpy witch whose robes bore the earthy marks of working the land. If the robes of the other half of the class hadn't been lined with the tell-tale blue of their house, Harry could have guessed that Slytherin shared Herbology classes with Ravenclaw by the frustration displayed at taking part in a practical subject where their knowledge would be of more limited use.

The hands-on activities in their first Herbology lesson were varied and interesting. One part of the lesson was dedicated to identifying different fertilisers and soil mixes. The back end of the greenhouse was thick with the smell of the various dungs, from great sacks donated by different dragons species to an unassuming pot containing the silvery droppings of a unicorn, dried and ground to a fine powder. Another part of the lesson involved determining the identity of a number of different plant samples, using their textbooks.

Harry and Blaise were across the central wooden table from Daphne and Tracey. When it came to identifying a pastel blue plant with a heavenly smell and delicate flowers which gave out a tinkling sound when moved, his legs nearly buckled beneath him. It was a strange effect, like the feeling when an annoying noise suddenly stops. Harry felt like his vision expanded and everything became brighter and clearer. There was silence in his head. He was neither hot nor cold. He could breathe easier. Across the table, Tracey had a wide grin, but Harry could have sworn that Daphne's eyes softened slightly, as though losing some previously imperceptible tension. Within seconds, though, the world began intruding once more upon them and the lesson carried on as though nothing had happened.

"Now that you have had some practice in identifying plants using you textbooks," Professor Sprout said as she waved her own battered and muddy copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, "your challenge is to locate the plants, or parts of plants, on this list. Each pair should take this map of the greenhouse along with the list. The maps are enchanted to record your accuracy and speed. I like to challenge all new students with this in the first lesson. There will be points for the best pairs and, if you beat the current record, there may be a prize."

With the potential for a prize, there was a mad rush towards the stacks of lists and maps before the first years realised that the professor was distributing them by magic. The pieces of parchment floated towards them all, somehow realising how the students were paired up so that each pair only got one copy between them.

The cacophony of the students' chatter was reflected off the glass of the greenhouse, enveloping them in a blanket of sound as the class scattered to search for the bizarre-sounding list of plants. As Harry discovered a small shrivelfig plant nestled within a dense patch of knotgrass, he thought that Neville would be superb at this challenge. He gave a sad little smile as he marked the shrivelfig on his map.

Harry was quite glad to have been paired up with Blaise as they made a good team. Of course, the top spot was taken by a pair of Ravenclaws, Padma Patil and Lily Moon, but Team Potter-Zabini had scored well enough to earn five points for Slytherin. While the winners leapt up and high-fived each other, Harry and Blaise shared a proud nod.

"Very well done, all of you," congratulated Professor Sprout. "I've been very impressed by what I've seen today. Every pair found the first twelve plants on the list, which you'll become very familiar with this year. Unfortunately, there was one plant which nobody managed to locate in the greenhouse, which was the Chinese chomping cabbage." At this point, the bell rang, cutting the professor off. As it finished, she continued to give them homework. "For Thursday's lesson, not tomorrow's lesson, I'd like three inches of parchment on the identifying characteristics of every part of the Chinese chomping cabbage. Make sure you wash up and off you go to lunch!"

As the Slytherins and Ravenclaws shuffled off in the direction of the great hall, Harry picked up a gnarled stick from the bundle that were laying on the table around which they had gathered during the lesson. He had noticed the swirls in the wood grain, subtly unlike the straight-grained sticks surrounding it. On his way out, looking resolutely towards the door to the outside, Harry placed the stick onto the professor's workbench at the front of the greenhouse.

#

Harry took his time going into the toilets and washing his hands. Judging by the lack of students doing the same, he guessed that there was going to be a number of first years getting ill. He shook his head - who would want to eat with their hands covered in soil, let alone soil mixed with dragon dung. As he felt the familiar gnawing sensation in his stomach, he decided that his hands were clean enough for a quick bite to eat.

The great hall was heaving with the entire students body. Harry stood in the entrance hall, just by the doors, and the wall of noise blasting from that room was almost solid. He could feel it beating him around the head. Poking his head around the door didn't make it any better. The sight of all those people was enough encouragement to ignore his stomach. It was a small enough price to pay for peace. He therefore decided to go looking for the library, going up one floor from his recent exploration.

As he turned round to head for the grand staircase, he nearly bumped into Professor Sprout. She had remarkably clean hands, even though she'd just come from the greenhouses. At the same time, he noticed that she looked like she was about to say something. Smothering his curiosity with his desire to leave, he rushed past her, hearing the intake of breath in her preparation to speak. Not looking back, he was grateful that the Herbology professor had decided not to call him back and had, presumably, gone into the great hall for lunch.

It only took around five minutes of thorough exploration away from the grand staircase for Harry to discover the library on the first floor. He could almost tell that he had arrived before reaching the entrance because of the dusty smell of books. It was the smell of safety and security and peace. Harry loved libraries. What helped with the secure feeling of libraries was the ubiquitous stern librarian stationed close to the entrance, never afraid to defend the sanctity of their domain. The Hogwarts library was no exception, with the sternest-looking witch he had ever seen.

"Good afternoon," Harry said in a quiet, but clear, voice. "I'd like to use your library. Are there any rules I'll need to follow?" In Harry's experience, a kind soul always lurked beneath the gruff exterior of a librarian, especially once you got to know them.

The librarian looked at him over her desk and raised an appraising eyebrow. "You wish to use my books?" she replied. "What rules do you think you should follow?" Harry looked thoughtful for a second before answering.

"Well, I wouldn't ever do anything like writing in a book or treating it badly, not even with my own books. Bringing food and drink into the library would be dangerous for the books, so that's a no-go. Erm, some libraries have a time limit of when to bring books back and some books can't be borrowed at all, but they can be read in the library. Uh, you've got to be quiet and make sure you don't disturb anyone who might be working. Ummmm... I can't think of anything else."

"That's more than most first years can come up with and a few of our older students would do well to remember those basic rules. If you ever start behaving like those Weasley twins I'll have you kicked out of here for good, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, nodding at the librarian who was frustrated by the mere thought of some of the older students.

"See to it that you don't," she said. "Books can be borrowed for one week each, up to a strict limit of five books per person. Longer borrowing or borrowing more books is a privilege that must be earned. Do not exceed the return time limit, otherwise you'll find that borrowing those books becomes more trouble than you bargained for. And finally, you can't enter or borrow anything from the restricted section until sixth year or if you have permission from one of the professors. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said again. The librarian dismissed him by turning back to her work. She was certainly going to be a tough nut to crack, but he was confident that she would be just like the other librarians he'd met after they became better acquainted.

Slowly, though, he surveyed the library. To call it big would be an understatement. Harry had never seen so many books in one place and the amount of knowledge contained in this one room was breathtaking. If knowledge truly was power, then this was the motherload. Finding no guide to the layout of the library, he began to scout it out, determining what type of books were placed where. It was a difficult task, given his lack of knowledge about the different magical subjects and the complicated layout of the library, but he managed to work out the general location of Potions book and Herbology books, being the most obvious subject to recognise. He'd just opened a book containing some odd symbols when the bell rang, meaning that he might end up late to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

#

"Secrets," Professor Quirrell began after he had taken the register. He stuttered slightly over the letter S, but it didn't take much away from the lesson. "The best form of defence is secrets. And I mean secrets in the plural. The more secrets you have, the less problematic it is for one of your secrets to be found out. For example, if I'd put a curse on the door to this room, it might hurt somebody, but only if it's a secret. If everyone knows there's a curse on the door, nobody's going to use it.

"This may be obvious to many of you, as Slytherins. Slytherin house has many secrets and, over the years, Slytherin students and former students have had more secrets than this entire castle. They also tend to be the best at finding out other people's secrets. If you can do that without them knowing, that's a secret you have over them. Let's see how many secrets you can think of to defend yourself. Write them anonymously on parchment and we'll mix them up and go through some of them."

Silence fell over the classroom, broken only by the shuffling of parchment and the scratching of quills as the first year Slytherins tried to think of as many defensive secrets as they could. After a couple of minutes, the Defence professor waved his wand and the pieces of parchment floated towards the front of the room. As they made their way to the front desk, each secret was separated from the others and the individual suggestions were shuffled into a pile.

The remainder of the lesson involved discussing the suggested defensive secrets and more. The idea of a spare wand was a good basic strategy to begin with, in case someone managed to relieve you of your primary weapon, but the discussion continued with even more effective ideas, such as hidden poisons, unseen allies and even making a building impossible to put on a map. Furrowing his brow in pain, Harry hastily scrawled down that the term for this was 'Unplottable'. Professor Quirrell smiled as he read the next suggestion in the pile.

"Being able to talk to snakes and have them help you in a fight. Interesting. This is a very rare ability called Parseltongue. Salazar Slytherin himself was a Parselmouth, which is why the symbol for the house of Slytherin is a snake. If someone in this room is a Parselmouth, I advise them to keep that a secret for as long as possible. It's a very useful skill, particularly within this castle, but very much misunderstood."

Professor Quirrell looked around the classroom as he said this, his eyes resting on each student in turn. As his gaze turned to Harry, the pain in the boy's scar intensified. Harry couldn't help but rest his head in his hand, looking down at his parchment. The pain was worse than he had felt at the welcoming feast and he lost track of the lesson for a few minutes. When he could focus once more, the professor was talking about some sort of charm to keep secrets.

It wasn't long before the bell rang to signal the end of the lesson and the first year Slytherins bundled out of the classroom and headed for the dungeons, chatting away about their first day of lessons. Harry, however, broke away from the pack and waited until they were out of sight before turning to a portrait on the wall and asking for directions. Apparently, the room he wanted was also on the first floor.


	7. The Potions Master

_PREVIOUSLY, in Defence Against the Dark Arts: Professor Quirrell looked around the classroom, his eyes resting on each student in turn. As his gaze turned to Harry, the pain in the boy's scar intensified._

_It wasn't long before the bell rang to signal the end of the lesson and the first year Slytherins bundled out of the classroom and headed for the dungeons, chatting away about their first day of lessons. Harry, however, broke away from the pack and waited until they were out of sight before turning to a portrait on the wall and asking for directions. Apparently, the room he wanted was also on the first floor._

-Chapter Seven-

The Potions Master

Following the portrait's instructions to the letter, Harry came to a set of tall double doors with windows high above eye level. The musty smell of the castle's endless corridors was suddenly absent this close to the door, indicating that he was at the right place. He knocked quietly. As much as he'd resolved to come here, now that he had actually arrived it was very different. It no longer felt like such a good idea. His knock was probably too quiet to have been heard anyway, so maybe he should just go.

Abruptly, the door was pulled open, revealing a greying witch in what looked like a mix between an old-fashioned nurse's uniform and wizarding robes. It was an odd mix, but then everything magical seemed to be a bit odd so far. The witch smiled kindly down at Harry.

"How can I help you young man?" she asked.

"I don't want to be a bother," Harry began.

She waved his words off immediately. "Nonsense. Whatever brought you here must have been bad enough to work out the way for yourself." Harry wondered how this witch had known that he'd found his own way here and it must have shown on his face. "First years don't get shown around properly until the first weekend of term," she explained. "Unfortunately, this year, you've got a whole week of lessons before then. Daft idea, if you ask me. Anyway, you've got me distracted. What's causing you problems?" Harry liked the way she talked and how she phrases things. It was very calming and he began to dismiss the idea that he shouldn't have come.

"Um, it's my head. I mean, I think it's my scar. It was hurting a lot when I was in Defence Against the Dark Arts."

The medical witch's eyes flickered up to Harry's forehead for a second before looking into his eyes again. "How much did it hurt?" she asked. "Give it a number from one to ten, with one being a little prickle to ten being so painful you might pass out."

Harry thought for a moment before holding eight fingers up. "Eight," he confirmed quietly.

"Come along to one of my nice, quiet beds and we'll see what we can do," the witch said kindly. Harry shuffled over to the bed in the corner furthest from the door and hopped up with a little grunt. "As it's the beginning of the year and I have some more time, how about I do a full check-up, just to make sure you won't have any problems later on?" Harry must have looked worried as she explained, "It's all done with my wand and you won't feel a thing. I just need you to lie back on the bed. You can close your eyes, if you like."

Harry nodded and closed his eyes. The bed was more comfortable than he'd expected. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it in favour of the temptation of sleep. He'd had a long day full of new experiences.

Slowly, Harry became aware that he'd properly fallen asleep. His eyes snapped open, full of worry and ready to become embarrassed at a moment's notice. Seeing that the medical witch wasn't standing over him, performing her check-up, he looked around, his head moving very little from its comfortable position on the pillow.

On the table beside his bed, he spotted a plate of food. Judging by the steam rising from the plate in lazy spirals, it was still warm. Oh, and it smelled good. Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, his mouth already moist with saliva in anticipation.

The kind medical witch came back into the room at almost the exact moment he had finished wolfing down the food left for him. He'd never had food that tasted so good. It was better than a few crusts of bread any day of the week. He wanted more, but his stomach was achingly full.

"You'll get cramps if you eat too quickly," she said with a small smile. "You'll also need to take it more slowly if you're going to work your way up to having big meals." Harry blushed at the implication.

"Sorry I fell asleep," Harry said in an effort to change the subject.

"Don't you worry about that. I've had more then my fair share of people falling asleep in one of my beds after they've had a long, tiring day. How's your head feeling?"

Harry wrinkled his brow before answering. "It all feels fine, ma'am. Is it fixed?"

"You can call me Madam Pomfrey," the medical witch corrected. "As for your head, we'll have to see. Was your head hurting when you came in or was it just in the lesson?"

"Just in the lesson, ma'am."

Madam Pomfrey frowned, not picking up on Harry still not using her name. "I don't think it was because you were tired, then," she said with a sigh. "I have a few things from my check-up that I still need to go through but, for now, I'll give you some potions in case you feel that bad again. I also want to see you at the end of the week for another check-up, just to see if we can work out what's going on. Is that ok with you?"

Harry nodded quietly at Madam Pomfrey, glad to have somebody looking out for him. She didn't seem too worried, so he wasn't too bothered himself. In any case, she had now given him a tiny rack of potions that he could use if he had another headache. That was probably the best outcome he could have hoped for.

"Oof!" Something had barrelled into Harry, knocking the wind out of him. As soon as he had walked into the Slytherin common room, he'd been attacked. Drawing on his experiences with Dudley, he quickly ducked down in an attempt to get out of the grasp of whoever was holding him, wildly swinging his arms around to make his captor let him go, at least for long enough to let him make a run for it.

"Ow!" Harry's flailing fists had hit their mark. However, the voice sounded familiar. As he jumped away from his assailant, he spun around to get a good look at who had ambushed him. Realising that they weren't pursuing him, he caught his breath and his vision began to come back into focus from the centre outwards; he hadn't even noticed that everything had blurred apart from the very centre of his view. Slowly, he saw who it was. Standing by the entrance to the common room, Harry saw Tracey, cheeks flushed and clutching her arm.

"Oh hell," Harry exclaimed, horror evident in his expression. "I'm so sorry, Tracey. I- I thought..." He trailed off, painfully aware of the number of people now silently watching them from the seats arranged around the large room. Tracey furrowed her brow, blinked, then swallowed before straightening slightly.

"Hey, come with me," she said, grabbing Harry's hand and dragging him towards their dormitory before waiting for him to respond. The faces of the onlookers flashed past as he was pulled to the doorway, feet barely making it across the floor in a logical order. The two hurried through the passageway between the _Allies_ dormitories, into their own and through another small door, ending up in a room with a single bed, a desk and a severe-looking wardrobe. Tracey pushed Harry into the desk chair and sat on the bed facing him.

"Where are we?" he asked, puzzled at entering another door after entering their shared dormitory.

"Well, that's all thanks to you, Harry," Tracey said. "This is my bedroom. This morning I was sharing the big room with you boys and when I come back after dinner my bed and my trunk were gone, and there was this door instead. I found this note on the bed inside." She picked up a piece of parchment that lay beside her and waved it under Harry's nose. Slowly, he took it from her and began to read the words written beneath the ornate seal of Slytherin.

_A true Slytherin need not start with wealth or power, nor knowledge above those he would seek to surpass. Instead, a true Slytherin uses their cunning to achieve their goals._

_A true Slytherin need not isolate their efforts for fear of ridicule or betrayal, Instead, a true Slytherin uses their contacts and connections, supplementing their abilities with those who specialise differently._

_A true Slytherin need not prescribe recompense for their gifts, nor need he draw attention to any favour owed. Instead, a true Slytherin is always seen as selfless and generous, yet will find more oft repayment in kind._

_A true Slytherin should not hinder their house by depriving others of the journey to understanding. Instead, a true Slytherin allows others of the house to develop their cunning unaided. For indeed, just as those who gain understanding are richer in knowledge than those who remember facts, those who can forge unlock more than those simply given the key._

"Hang on," Harry said slowly. "I still don't get what's going on."

"Did you ask someone to help give me some privacy?" Tracey asked.

"Well, yeah, I asked Professor Snape. From what he said to me, I didn't think he'd do anything." Harry grimaced at the thought of Professor Snape and his reaction to the request.

"See, I knew it was you. None of the others knew anything about it. Professor Snape must have made this bedroom for me. Thank you for getting him to do this." Tracey stood in front of Harry. "Can I give you a hug without you going crazy this time?" she asked.

"Sure," Harry replied, standing up to meet her. Tracey stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around his torso. Harry stiffened slightly at the embrace, then gingerly put his arms on her back. After a few seconds, he lowered his arms and Tracey followed suit, stepping back from him. "So what do you think Snape meant in the note?" he asked.

"I'm not sure I get all of it, but I think he was saying that asking for help is sometimes a cunning thing to do and maybe he was also saying that we should keep trying to be cunning. You know, because it's a Slytherin thing."

"I guess," Harry said. "I think being cunning is all about doing what you have to to get what you want, and if you can't do it yourself, I guess part of that is knowing who can and who will." He paused for a second. "Talking about who can do something, have you started the Charms homework?" Tracey shook her head. "Wanna work on it together?"

#

It was late when Harry woke the next morning. After falling asleep in the hospital wing, it was difficult for him to fall asleep, especially with the duet of snores from Crabbe and Goyle's direction, amongst the chorus of regular breathing. He checked the time after putting his glasses on and was relieved to find that there was still a large chunk of breakfast time left before their first class began. According to the timetable, it was Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall. Harry smiled and began to rummage through his trunk for suitable clothes.

Instead of going to the great hall, Harry was the first to line up outside the Transfiguration classroom. He slipped his bag off his shoulder, slid down the wall beside the door and opened up his Transfiguration textbook. Although he'd already read further ahead, he decided to go back over the basics that they would no doubt be covering in this lesson. As he looked at the first page, he was reminded of how much emphasis was put on safety in this particular subject.

The sound of footsteps grew ever louder as Harry came to the end of the chapter. Breakfast had finished and hundreds of shoes were beating out the centuries-old journeys from the great hall to the many classrooms in the castle. Theodore Nott was the next to arrive at the Transfiguration classroom, though he leant nonchalantly against a wall further down the corridor, rather than line up formally beside the door. He was quickly followed, however, by Tracey and Daphne. Tracey gestured to Daphne and hurried ahead of her towards Harry.

"Here," she said, holding a couple of slices of toast towards him. "I thought you might not come down to breakfast, so I brought breakfast to you." Harry's eyes widened ever so slightly before he gratefully took the proffered food.

"Thanks, Tracey. Umm... Sorry about last night." Harry's eyes dropped to the floor.

"Hey, that's alright," Tracey replied, putting her arm on his shoulder. Harry shied away from her touch. "I think I understand." He looked up slowly to see her smiling at him. It seemed like an open, honest and genuine smile and he couldn't see any hint of judgement or anger or disgust in her expression. He gave her a small smile in return before they were brought back to the castle by the sound of the classroom door opening. Murmuring swept through the corridor. "How did she get into the classroom?" Tracey hissed. "She was still in the great hall when we left."

The class filtered into the classroom and took their seats. Tracey parted from Harry to sit next to Daphne - the two girls were almost inseparable, though it seemed to Harry that most of the effort in the relationship was on the part of Tracey, Daphne retaining her cool, uncaring exterior even with her constant companion. She looked around the classroom as she sat but, seemingly disappointed, faced the front without a word. Harry assumed, as he took his own seat in the back corner, that she had been looking for a second entrance into the room.

Harry quietly bit off a corner of his first slice of toast, not wanting to disturb the class. Of course, Professor McGonagall took that exact moment to meet his eyes. While Harry blushed, the professor waved her wand in his general direction. The toast, both in his mouth and in his hand, warmed and felt as though it were fresh from the toaster. He smiled at the professor, who replied with a subtle wink.

#

"Mr Potter, a word if you please." Harry had been packing his parchment and quills back into his bag when Professor McGonagall had approached his desk and quietly made her request. He made an effort to take a long time to pack his bag, finishing just as the last person left for Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall?" Harry asked hesitantly as he approached her desk.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said with a smile and a softening of the eyes. "I just wanted to ask whether you had your potions on you."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. Then he had a worrying thought. "Did Madam Pomfrey...?"

Professor McGonagall held up a hand to quiet the boy. "Calm down. Madam Pomfrey has only discussed your health with myself and Professor Snape - Professor Snape because he is your Head of House and is therefore responsible for your wellbeing, myself because I was the first person to see you for over ten years and she had some questions for me. The rest of the staff have only been told that they are to let you take your potions as and when necessary, not even what they are for."

Harry visibly sagged in relief and let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding. "Thank you, Professor," he said.

"Not a problem, Mr Potter," Professor McGonagall said with a warm smile. "By the way, I'd recommend the food in the great hall. I'm not sure every professor here would be happy with you eating in their classroom, especially if they are... less understanding. Now, you'd better go to your next lesson if you don't want Professor Snape to have words with you."

#

The first year Slytherins didn't have a lesson with Professor Snape until Friday morning. They had also avoided the first year Gryffindors until then. Sharing a class with the Gryffindors worried Harry, and this was a feeling shared by most of his classmates. The older Slytherins had all told them harrowing tales of the terrible deeds perpetrated on Slytherins by Gryffindors. This had been backed up by the other first years relaying the experiences passed down by their parents. Clearly Gryffindor students had held a grudge against Slytherin students for generations, perhaps passed down within Gryffindor families.

Harry wasn't so foolish as to take the stories at face value, despite the overwhelming number of different tales from different sources. However, even though he had, at first, thought he'd imagined it, the Gryffindors, even the older ones, seemed to dislike them. In the great hall, they received everything from suspicious looks, through scowls, all the way to rude gestures. The latter were rare, but that was likely due to the constant presence of teachers overseeing each meal.

Outside the Potions classroom, the enmity between the houses of lion and snake was clear. Each lined up on opposite sides of the corridor and, even though they had all been in Hogwarts for less than a week, both groups were sending dark looks at each other. Harry shifted from one foot to the other under the accusing gaze of the Gryffindors.

He jumped as the Potions professor appeared and the door banged open. They were bidden to find their seats and so filed into the classroom, pairing up at the desks beside the cauldron stations. Harry was one of the last in, hoping to, as usual, get a desk to himself at the back.

Everyone else had paired up and he had no choice in where to sit. He was somewhat disappointed that Blaise had paired up with Pansy Parkinson, although he understood the boy's choice. When she wasn't pulling a face in defence at the Gryffindors, she was actually rather pretty. Harry, on the other hand, was doomed to be seated with Millicent Bulstrode, who was decidedly not pretty. Besides this, she always seemed to be angry at something. That or, if you caught her unawares, a little sad.

"There will be no foolish wand waving or silly incantations in this class," Professor Snape began as the class quickly became silent. Harry smiled at this with amusement. Classing wandwork as foolish or silly was a very Muggle point of view. Perhaps the head of Slytherin was a Muggle-born. This would be, from what he had been told of the usual composition of the house, rather unusual.

Harry was jolted out of his reverie by Professor Snape firing a question at him. "Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" He racked his brains for the answer, mentally searching for any reference made to either substance in the pages of the textbook he had read so far. Brow furrowed, he struggled to concentrate with one Gryffindor girl waving her hand in the air in front of him and making grunting noises like a toddler attempting to reach a high-up treat.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said in a quavering voice, "I'm afraid I haven't read up to that chapter yet."

"Oh really?" Professor Snape replied with an arched eyebrow. "Pray tell, which chapters have you read?"

Harry flushed, though his was at least a question he was capable of answering. "Up to chapter six, sir," he replied honestly, knowing that he had not quite finished reading the sixth chapter, which involved the distilling of potions into more concentrated forms and the creation of pastes.

Professor Snape blinked, then proceeded to grill Harry further. "Then what are the dangers involved in creating a paste, poultice or even a solid substance?" Harry immediately realised how cheeky the professor was being, considering his earlier answer. As luck would have it, however, the answer was only about ten pages into chapter six. Of course, the Gryffindor girl once again tried her very hardest to attract Professor Snape's attention.

"I'm sure I don't know all the dangers yet, sir, but I think one of them is if your ingredients haven't fully dissolved yet. It's not homologous or something, so different parts of the mixture will have different effects."

"You're certainly correct that you don't know all the dangers yet, Potter. Let's see if the noble house of Gryffindor has read up to chapter six." The potions master looked down at the register on his desk. "Weasley." A boy with bright ginger hair his seat on the Gryffindor side of the room. "What are the disadvantages of creating a solid substance, rather than a standard potion or solution?" The boy glanced quickly at Harry before answering, yet even with such a brief look, the anger was obvious.

"Because it's horologists?" the boy suggested.

"Without copying Potter's answer, however abysmally," Professor Snape said with a sneer. The bushy-haired Gryffindor girl was once more straining to get her hand as high as humanly possible, but the ginger boy had fallen silent. "Pathetic. For your information, asphodel and wormwood form the basis of a sleeping potion so powerful that it is known as the Draught of Living Death. One of the many dangers of creating a paste or poultice is, as well as inconsistent effects due to an inconsistent structure - the word here is homogeneous, not homologous - there are also issues of dosage, where only a fraction of the poultice is in contact with the surface it is applied to, rather than the entirety of a potion when drunk. Finally, looking at further disadvantages, I would also have accepted the pitifully banal answer that a solid substance can pose a choking hazard."

Professor Snape looked around at the class, not even taking a deep breath after his lecture. "Well?" he continued. "Why aren't you all writing that down?" The dungeon classroom was suddenly filled with rustling as nearly two dozen eleven-year-olds extricated their quills, ink pots and parchment from their bags. This soon gave way to the intermittent scratching of those quills as the students fumbled blindly within their short-term memory in a rush to write down the professor's information.

As he diligently recorded his first Potions notes in his mostly-legible scrawl, Harry could feel the Potions professor watching him from across the room. The man made a good show of moving between the students to check on their current task, but he could somehow feel eyes boring into him. Nevertheless, Harry refused to look up, away from his work.

The remainder of the lesson passed somewhat uneventfully. The class learned the basics of how to properly prepare a number of standard ingredients, although Professor Snape enjoyed lingering on the consequences of failing to do so. Besides the obvious dangers, which were varied and abundant, the more attentive of the students learned that the professor considered it a cardinal sin to waste even so much as a beetle eye or a daisy root. At the end of the lesson, he made it clear to Harry that he suspected the rack of potions given by Madam Pomfrey were a waste of ingredients.

"Potter, stay behind," Professor Snape called out while everyone was cleaning their equipment at the end of the lesson. Harry was carefully scooping the horned slug horn dust that he had prepared as part of the lesson into an empty vial, which he then labelled and dated. Meanwhile, the majority of the rest of the class were throwing their used ingredients away as they were no longer needed. Professor Snape, however, had returned to his desk at the front of the classroom and was doing his best to ignore the students as he made notes on a pile of parchment.

There was almost a mad dash for the door when Professor Snape, without looking up from his marking, dismissed the class with a careless wave. Blaise patted Harry on the back as he passed behind where Harry remained seated. Harry smiled at the boy and got a wink in return. His smile didn't last long, however. As the Gryffindor half of the class bundled past on their way to the great hall for lunch, he overheard someone mutter, "Bloody Slytherins, always causing trouble." He sighed, and hung his head.

"Potter." Harry looked up and saw Professor Snape now looming above him. With nobody else in the room, the man certainly cut an imposing figure. "Where are you going after you leave here?" Whatever he had been expecting to be asked, it wasn't that.

"To the great hall, sir," he replied.

"And after that?" Professor Snape said slowly, enunciating every word carefully. Harry paused and thought for a moment.

"I think I might go for a little walk outside and then go to the library, sir." Going for a walk would be the perfect way to take advantage of their free afternoon before taking up his usual spot in the library. Professor Snape, however, seemed to disagree.

"Is it part of your great plan, Potter, to waste not only my time, but also the time and resources of Madam Pomfrey?" the professor asked.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"I believe you gave your word to Madam Pomfrey on Monday," Professor Snape explained, and it dawned on Harry.

"I suppose it would be best to go to the hospital wing straight after lunch, rather than in the evening," Harry reasoned.

"Indeed," Professor Snape said simply. "Ensure that you do attend the great hall to take your meals today. I will be watching." With that, he swept out of the classroom, cloak billowing behind him.


	8. Taking Flight

-Chapter Eight-

Taking Flight

Harry had complied with Professor Snape's instructions, going straight to the great hall rather than making a short detour to the Slytherin common room to drop off his bag. He found a space close to the doors and carefully sat down. From a glance up at the staff table, it was clear to see that Professor Snape, although seeming to look around the room with disinterest, was not doing so out of any duty to oversee the students. His gaze was lingering slightly longer upon the end of the green-themed table closest to the door and it made Harry slightly uncomfortable.

While Harry watched the professor, their eyes met for a few seconds. Without breaking that eye contact, Professor Snape lifted a chicken drumstick from his plate to his mouth and bit into it in what seemed like a rather exaggerated manner. When Harry made no move, Snape raised an eyebrow and the boy understood. Harry piled some food onto his own golden plate and began to shuttle small piles into his mouth. Satisfied, Professor Snape didn't look at him even once after that point.

The meeting with Madam Pomfrey was, unfortunately, no less awkward. After asking about that week's potion usage and whether he had felt any other symptoms, she continued to ask further questions about his scar. Some of her questions were very strange and he didn't know where she was going with her line of questioning. He didn't like people talking about his scar anyway. It never went well for him. He needed this to end. He had to get out.

Relief was an insufficient description for how Harry felt when he was released from Madam Pomfrey's interrogation with his potions restocked. Not wanting to seem rude, he quickly thanked her and turned to walk calmly - miraculously more calmly than he felt - out of the hospital wing. As soon as he was out of sight, however, he bolted, shoes slapping against the flagstones of the corridor before he could be called back.

#

The first month of Hogwarts passed more quickly than Harry thought possible. Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were mostly pain free thanks to the regularly-restocked supply of potions, although Madam Pomfrey was now giving him only enough to last three of the four lessons each fortnight. Apparently, pain potions could have detrimental effects with prolonged use.

Charms class was enjoyable, although a little hazardous as small fires kept breaking out. They were sticking to using the most basic form of magic, which was shooting sparks out of their wands. Unfortunately, the amount of parchment in the classroom made the usual classroom setup somewhat prone to random ignitions, so Professor Flitwick had secured the use of a different classroom, with one end set up with some kind of fireproof material. Each class of first years had been practicing modifying their sparks in terms of their colour and size, and they soon learned that magic was more than just about following a set of instructions.

Transfiguration was oddly tiring when it was a practical lesson, although the students weren't running around or exerting themselves physically in any way. They had started trying to turn a match into a needle, which had caused a couple of hours of straining and scowling at sticks of wood as they stubbornly refused to become something else, no matter how similar. Eventually, though, everybody managed the transformation - some, like Crabbe and Goyle, with more than a little help - and the class discussed other similar objects that they could use as practice.

"A mouse and a rat?" Theodore Nott suggested when he was called on.

"Very good," Professor McGonagall commented, "although transfiguring animate objects is much harder than transfiguring inanimate objects. You'll learn this for your OWLs. Please don't try to transfigure your or other students' pets. Mr Zabini?"

"A carrot and a parsnip?" Blaise said, clearly thinking about lunch.

"Similar objects, yes, but I'm afraid food cannot be transfigured. Do not attempt to transfigure any food or anything into food." Thus began a long lecture about the dangers of transfiguring food and, by extension, anything designed to enter a living creature.

The lecture in Transfiguration was much more pleasant to endure than any of the lectures in History of Magic. It was the only class to be taught by a ghost, Professor Binns, and it seemed to be his mission to ensure as many students as possible joined him beyond the veil by boring them to death. After the first few lessons, the Slytherin first years had compared their notes to the textbook and realised that Bathilda Bagshot's work contained more detail than their combined scrawlings. Harry felt this was a waste of a period that could easily be put to better use, although many of his classmates thought sleep counted towards that.

The other subject in which the first years found it difficult to keep their eyes open was Astronomy. The main reason for this is that the class took place at midnight every Wednesday. By that point, the first years had already been through a long day, followed by a warm, hearty meal that turned their eyelids to lead. After all that, they had to work in the dark, the dim light from the castle windows barely bright enough to read or write by. The strain made their eyes dry and crusty, begging to be closed. They couldn't even light a candle, else they would be blinded from observing the night sky.

Despite the fact that there were more professors at the school, the first years continued to just study the seven core subjects and quickly fell into a routine. Harry was impressed with himself for not having to look at his timetable beyond the first day. It was surprising, considering that he personally considered his memory to be pretty poor at times. However, he was brought out of his musing by almost bumping into somebody much taller than him.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said, looking up into the man's face. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow at him and carried on walking through the dungeons. "Subtlety," Harry muttered as he approached the wall that barred the way into the common room.

Once inside, as though passing through an invisible, soundproof bubble, his ears were met with a hubbub of chatter. This was unusual in the Slytherin common room as far as Harry had experienced. The normal state of affairs was quiet, with hushed conversations taking place in shady corners or on huddled couches, depending on whether they were for business or pleasure. The rest of the occupants of the common room tended to be silently reading great times from the library.

However, scowls were being shot at the group of fellow first years gathered around the notice board. It was a muted affair with precisely-arranged, neatly-scribed notice cards, but fingers seemed to be pointed at one in particular.

Harry sidled up to the group, craning his neck to see what all the fuss was about, concerned that the card might indicate something happening at short notice. He recognised the handwriting as the spiky lettering of their head of house and realised how recently Professor Snape must have affixed this card to the notice board. Regardless of the short time the card had spent on display, there was already a large, grubby fingerprint on its bottom half. He didn't care to guess whether that was the handiwork of Crabbe or Goyle.

The two heavyset boys were somewhat of a mystery. They didn't tend to talk and, judging by their almost constant presence at Draco's shoulders, they had clearly had the virtues of silence drilled into them. Most of the professors had given up on calling on them in class, but Professor McGonagall seemed honourbound to at least try to elicit an answer from them in each class. Harry couldn't envisage either of them giving much of a coherent or thought-out answer, though.

Also not in the realm of imagination was the two whizzing around the sky on broomsticks. However, it seemed that this was going to be an experience in the near future according to the notice card. Flying lessons were scheduled to begin after classes on Thursdays. Harry was quite excited at the prospect of being able to fly, to be free like the birds he so often watched out of the corner of his eye while working in Aunt Petunia's garden.

"I don't see the point of having flying lessons," Draco was saying at the other side of the group. "I've been flying since I was three. My father says I'm a natural. It's a travesty that first years aren't allowed their own brooms. I blame the mudbloods. Dumbledore's probably worried that one of them will break their neck. Big deal."

"I suppose it would make sense to allow Slytherins to have their own brooms," Theo Nott said. "Nothing for Dumbledore to worry about then."

"Except for favouritism," Blaise countered. "You've got to play the political game, Theo. Even Draco knows that." To Harry, Draco looked distinctly as though he agreed with every word Theo had said, but quickly rushed to agree with Blaise. Behind Draco's back, Theo rolled his eyes.

The three boys began a heated discussion and the other first years took this as their cue to busy themselves elsewhere. Harry agreed with the general consensus that this wasn't a conversation he ought to weigh in on. In fact, he knew he would just show his ignorance if he tried.

He remained in a pensive mood all the way to the shared dormitory, repeating the conversation in his head. No matter how much he went over the words, however, he couldn't glean the answers to his questions from the context. There was always the opportunity to dismiss the questions, particularly if there was a risk of embarrassment, but Harry eventually decided that flying was worth it.

The knocks on Tracey's door echoed through the dormitory, devoid of people to absorb the sound waves. After a few seconds, the handle rattled and the door was pulled inward to reveal Tracey. By the looks of her desk, she had been about to start a piece of homework.

"Hi, Harry," she said with a bright smile. "You alright?"

"Uh, yeah," Harry said eloquently. "I, er-"

"Come in, come in," Tracey interrupted, stepping aside from the doorway and gesturing to her bed. Harry smiled at her, thankful for the chance to line up his next few words. "You look like you've got a question." Spot on. Harry sat on the edge of her bed.

"Yeah, I just wanted to ask… Well, I was listening to the guys talking about flying lessons and stuff and Draco said something and I was wondering if you knew what a mudblood was." Tracey frowned at this and Harry began to meticulously study his hands clasped in his lap. She pulled the chair away from her desk and sat down.

"Right, I suppose you wouldn't know, would you?" Tracey sighed and ran her hand through her hair. Harry looked up at her, their eyes meeting, and she paused. "It's not something we say in my house and it's certainly not something you hear in polite company. It's really rude, actually." Harry blushed, knowing exactly what 'really rude' things people had started talking about in his old school. "Not like that," Tracey rushed to say. "It's a rude word for someone who's Muggle-born. You know, someone whose parents are both Muggles."

"Oh." Tracey sat back at Harry's short response. "What's wrong with being a Muggle-born?"

"Nothing at all," Tracey said, shaking her head, "but not everyone believes that. In Slytherin, there are a lot of Pureblood families, where magic has run in their blood for many generations. Salazar Slytherin believed that only Purebloods should be taught magic, so Purebloods often think they're better than Muggle-borns, especially in Slytherin. My dad told me that people used to think the same about people who had different colour skin, which is even more stupid. He also said it's probably best to just play along with things when people are being idiots, if you want life in Slytherin to be easy."

"Like that's ever going to be the case," Harry muttered. "People already hate me here."

"Hey, maybe if you're obviously a benefit to the house, people will back off. I mean, nobody hassles the Quidditch players."

#

Quidditch involved flying, and this was all Harry heard about for the next two days. The Slytherin Quidditch team revelled in the attention that the upcoming classes brought and told stories of the feeling of wind whistling through you and the glory of daring manoeuvres. Draco gloated about pre-Hogwarts escapades whenever he was around Muggle-born students. Flying was convincingly the best thing in the world.

As much as Harry doubted the particulars of Draco's more far-fetched stories, the pure joy of the experience couldn't be masked. He had, for many years, looked up to the sky and envied the birds for their freedom. While on his knees in the dirt, covered in scrapes and bruises from his tasks in the garden, he had always longed to be able to trade places; to skim the clouds and become one with the swirling breeze.

Nobody could concentrate on their homework on Wednesday evening and first years of all houses could be seen lingering by the windows in the corridors or standing just outside the entrance, breathing deeply. Envious looks shot from the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables to the Slytherins and Gryffindors as the badgers and eagles would have to wait until the next day for their scheduled flying lessons, never more so when the two lines of red-clad and green-trimmed students passed the corridors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.

The hawk-eyed Madam Hooch directed the Slytherins towards one of the two lines of broomsticks, where they waited for the Gryffindors to arrive. Although there was some jostling for the best-looking brooms, there wasn't much to recommend any of them. Most of them seemed wonky in one way or another, with twigs snapped to different lengths and bent at awkward angles. At the end of the tedious display of posturing, Harry was left with a broom which had a nasty crack along the length of the handle. It had been filled with some sort of grey putty and wrapped in what Harry had learned was called Spellotape.

Finally, the Gryffindors arrived, already stumbling over each other in their desperation to get to the broomsticks, as though reaching them immediately would let them fly immediately. Unfortunately, Madam Hooch had other ideas. A lecture about the anatomy of a broomstick would have made for a particularly interesting lesson at any other time, but as always anticipation was the death of patience and a stumbling block in the path of curiosity. In that very moment, despite how crucial it would feel after a long flight, nobody could dredge up the effort to care about the cushioning charm on the narrow handle or the way a fraction of the wind was deflected by the charms at the front end.

A safety lecture followed, stretching out interminably and barring the way to the flight at the end of the tunnel. However, they were eventually allowed to step up beside their brooms, waiting with one arm outstretched, ready to seize them.

"Up!" they all called when instructed. Harry and Draco were among only a select few, mostly on the Slytherin side of the teacher, whose brooms immediately jumped into their hands. Harry was grinning, revelling in the feeling of the broom thrumming within his grasp, pulling insistently into the sky. Draco was displaying his impatience by perfecting his sneer, directed at those slowing the class down.

Madam Hooch walked between the two lines of students when they had all successfully summoned their brooms, correcting their grips as they mounted. Draco scowled at being corrected, but bit back a retort with his eagerness. At the sound of the whistle, they were allowed to kick off, rise a few feet and dip back down to the ground. Harry's broom shuddered a little and seemed to want to drift off towards the Forbidden Forest, but those niggles paled in comparison to the sheer joy of even such a short flight.

Little by little, they were allowed to rise higher and higher and return to the ground as Madam Hooch examined their stability and their confidence. They moved on to drifting sideways before turning and, eventually, they were split into two large groups. Their lesson was almost at an end, but Harry and Draco's group were allowed to fly slowly around the edge of the Quidditch pitch while the flying instructor was helping the second group master the basics and improve in confidence. Of course, they were told in no uncertain terms what would happen if they were to fly to quickly or too high or mess about in any way imaginable.

It was wonderful.

The group of confident flyers glided gently around the pitch, sometimes drifting to one side or another but always keeping in a loose pack. They weren't going to give this up for a moment of foolishness. Indeed, many of them were whooping for joy, oblivious to the fact that many of those accompanying them were from a rival house.

Harry's broom began to shudder once more as he turned around behind the goalposts at one end of the pitch. He drifted a little wider than the group and tried to correct and catch up. However, the broom seemed like it was running out of energy, flying slower and slower, and yet it was now drifting further upwards. The shuddering got worse and, looking down at the broom, it seemed as though the grey putty filling the split in the handle was coming away from the edges and being pushed out.

Suddenly, the broom began to buck wildly, like a horse Harry had caught a glimpse of while Uncle Vernon was watching a programme about rodeos. Seeing his group far ahead and below him, and Madam Hooch concentrating on one of her group, with her back to him, he finally began to panic. The ground was falling ever further away and he was growing ever more likely to meet it on a one-way trip.

Like a dog fresh from a river, the broom started to roll along its length, attempting to shake Harry off like so much water. It rolled over completely and he was left hanging on by one hand, and yet it carried on rolling. His wrist was unable to roll around with the broom, so it began to rotate within his grip, friction burning the hand that was growing ever slicker with sweat. Finally, tasting the moisture of the clouds, he fell.


	9. Smoke and Mirrors

-Chapter Nine-

Smoke and Mirrors

For a few moments, the fall was exhilarating. The wind whipped around Harry's face, the increasing chill belying his acceleration. It felt as though he truly was flying unsupported, not even shackled to his broom.

His broom. That thought brought him back with a bump that would only be rivalled by his upcoming appointment with the ground. Unsupported flight would be fantastic, but this was uncontrolled flight, also known as falling from a fatal height. Harry drew a quick breath, his body preparing to tell in its own futile attempt to get help, but the air was forced from his lungs before he could utter a single sound.

The feeling of laying on cold, slightly damp grass intruded upon Harry's awareness as he attempted to make sense of what had happened. He was also rapidly becoming aware of a crushing pressure on his torso. He coughed and began to blink, his eyes trying to focus.

His sight first registered a bright orange colour, which quickly took on the detail of a head of ginger hair. Two heads of ginger hair. Both groaned and turned upward to look at his face from their position on his chest.

"Afternoon," said one.

"Nice day for it," the other said. Harry blinked. He'd seen these two third years before, and heard of their reputation. They were the two being pointedly looked at during the welcoming feast and, from what Harry had heard, the staff were right to suspect these two troublemakers. However, Harry didn't want to jump to any conclusions about why they were on top of him.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Harry was glad Madam Hooch had thought to ask this most salient question. The ginger twins pushed themselves off Harry and sat up, revealing brooms in their hands.

"It was the broom, ma'am."

"It was cursed."

"It chucked him off and flew away."

"We had to catch him." The twins explained what had happened in a way that changed focus from one sentence to the next, each instinctively knowing where to jump in as the other finished. Harry continued to lay on the ground as Madam Hooch interrogated the twins.

"What were you doing here in the first place?" she asked, hands on her hips. "I know for a fact that all third years still have classes at this time on a Thursday."

"Gryffindor had a free period."

"The professor was ill."

Madam Hooch raised her eyebrows and promised to put the twins in detention if she found out they were lying. Next, she focused on Harry, kneeling down beside him and waving her wand over his body. He didn't see any effects of the spell, but had to assume it had indicated something to her as she abruptly stood back up.

"You seem to be unhurt, Mr Potter," she announced. "If you feel any adverse effects from your adventure today, take yourself to the hospital wing. Otherwise, I'll see you here next week to improve your broom control. Now, Weasleys, where did the broom fly off to?"

"It looked like it was heading towards the Whomping Willow," they answered in unison. Madam Hooch furrowed her brow at this, but strode back to the rest of the first years in order to dismiss them for the day.

"What's a Whomping Willow?" Harry asked.

"Nasty big bugger of a tree."

"Knock you clean of your broom if you fly too close."

"Then it'll just keep beating you."

"Turn you into jam."

"Anyway, we're the Weasleys."

"I'm Fred, he's George."

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter," he said by way of introduction. The twins rolled their eyes.

"Yeah, we know. I think most of the wizarding world would know you by sight. Here, come with us."

The twins hooked their arms under Harry's, flanking him as they walked back towards the castle. As they left the Quidditch pitch, they spotted Madam Hooch heading towards a swaying tree on the far side of the grounds on her broomstick. However, they were going too quickly to be able to see what she would do when she got there.

Passing through the entrance hall, they noticed Ron hanging slightly behind in the doorway to the great hall. When he saw them, he smirked and headed in. Harry and the twins, however, weren't headed to the great hall for the start of dinner. Instead, they began to climb the grand staircase.

"Did you really have a free period?" Harry asked. The twins wore expressions of mock affronts, their free hands clutched to their hearts.

"Fred, he wounds us."

"Understandable, though, my dear George. An ill professor is a rare occurrence indeed."

"Still, it's not a big loss, brother."

"Indeed. Defence is pathetic this year. I don't know what I'll do if I hear another lecture about the dangers of duelling and why the best idea is always to walk away."

"That's odd," Harry interrupted. "Professor Quirrell has always given us good lessons. I've learnt a lot from him already." The twins looked at though he'd frown an extra head.

Quickly, the odd trio came upon a large mirror, almost the height of the wall to which it was fixed and nearly half as wide. Fred, if Harry had been keeping track properly, reached around the left edge of the mirror and, with a click, it swung open just wide enough to let them behind it. Passing through, they entered a room that was about half the size of the Charms classroom, although the end opposite the entrance was a wall of rubble, the ceiling having caved in long ago. The floor was surprisingly clear of rubble and dust, however, and there were boxes and loose items laid out along one of the walls.

"Nice place," Harry said, hanging back by the entrance. Fred and George pulled out a few boxes and sat on one each, palms open in a gesture of friendliness.

"Thanks," one of the twins said. Harry had lost track of their identities since they'd entered this hidden room. "We just wanted to ask you some questions."

"Right…" Harry said, sitting on one of the other boxes, feeling that this was the least he could do for the two people who'd saved his life.

"What have you been doing to our Ron?"

"Your what now?" What was a Ron?

"Our brother. You know, lanky tosser. Hair as bright as a neon banana. Shares Potions with you." Harry couldn't help but smile at the disparaging way the twins talked about their hair colour.

"Oh, him? I haven't done anything to him. He makes that difficult sometimes, but I've got enough trouble going around as it is."

"That's not the way he tells it," said a twin, leaning back. "He says you've got it out for him, especially in Potions."

"What?" Harry scowled at the tales that had been told about him. "He's the one that's had it in for me, ever since that first Potions lesson. Snape started off by asking some complicated Potions questions-"

"Yeah, he does that," the left-hand twin interrupted. "He likes to show the first years how stupid they are and what little he has to work with. Lovely chap."

"Anyway," Harry continued, "I might have answered back a little, but ended up answering one of his questions because I'd read ahead a bit."

"Such a Ravenclaw."

"So then Snape picked your brother next and asked him a similar question, but he tried to copy my answer. He copied it really badly and Snape said some unkind stuff to him, so then he thinks it's all my fault and is just so rude all the time." Harry sighed as he finished his explanation and looks down to the floor. The twins ponder this for a while.

"That sounds about right." Harry looked up in shock, bemusement clear on his face. "We know our brother can be a bit of an idiot at times-"

"All the time…"

"Right you are, George. He doesn't like it when people are better than him-"

"Which makes him a right pain when us two handsome and talented chaps are around…"

"Anyway, we've been watching and, out of all the Slytherins, you seem the most polite and haven't even been rude to him once. I mean, we haven't seen you around much, sure, but in your flying lesson, all you cared about was being in the air. Compare that to that blond one in your house-"

"Probably a Malfoy…"

"-who was making faces at people who hadn't flown before and muttering under his breath. Poor show. You, however, are a nice Slytherin."

"At least that's two people who won't have it out for the entire house," Harry replies, glad that the twins, of all people, didn't believe that all Slytherins were terrible people. In return, Harry conceded that not all Gryffindors had been harassing him and his classmates, and so not all Gryffindors were bullies.

Harry, Fred and George continued talking for a while, keeping to more mundane topics and getting a feel for each other's personalities, preferences and beliefs. Harry had frowned when Fred had brought up the topic of girls, but George had quickly elbowed his brother in the ribs, moving the conversation along to their favourite foods.

Salivating heavily at the thought of treacle tart, Harry's stomach gave a loud rumble. They'd been talking all through dinner in this strange room and there wouldn't be anything to eat until the morning. He sighed. He'd been getting used to the regular food schedule at the castle, and here he couldn't even sneak out at night to raid the fridge.

"Something wrong?" George asked, noticing his shoulders sag.

"All this talk about food just made me realise we'd missed dinner," he replied in a small voice. "Sorry for making you miss dinner."

George began to chuckle. "Don't worry about that. Here, come with us. Gotta show you something."

Following the twins, Harry made his way back down to the entrance hall, passing the occasional handful of students chatting happily. Fred and George talked to him about pranks that had taken place in previous years, though they were quick to assure their surroundings in general - before, during and after their description for each - that they had most definitely played no part in any prank and that any connection, real or imagined, was a complete coincidence and not to be taken as proof of guilt. Professor Flitwick hadn't looked convinced, but kept quiet as he passed.

Eventually, they stopped in a corridor one floor below ground level. It was lined with still life paintings. There was a leafy garden, a bowl of fruit, a mountain vista, for some reason a turnip on a sundial… As one, both Weasley twins approached the painting of the bowl of fruit, extended a finger each and tickled the pear. Harry looked at them, bewildered, until it started to giggle, then chortle, squirming away from the tickling fingers until it popped out of the canvas on the form of a door handle.

"Who are they?" Harry asked when he saw the bustling crowd of waist-high creatures working around the kitchen.

"These are the Hogwarts House-elves. Without them, the castle would probably fall apart."

"Misters Wheezy be too kind to say so," a squeaky voice said. One of the elves had approached them, dressed in a tea towel which bore the Hogwarts crest.

"Well it's true," George replied. "You guys cook and clean and mend and help in any way you feel you can, all for a giant castle with hundreds of people living inside. You're the real magic here."

While his twin was talking, Fred gave Harry a wink and he started to wonder whether the Weasleys were being sincere or whether they were laying it on thick for a reason. Nevertheless, the elf stood straighter during the speech and his eyes grew watery.

"Sir bes too kind to the elves. What can the elves be doing for the kind sirs?"

The three students were quickly shuffled over to a table at the edge of the kitchen when they asked for some food. It was already fully laid for dinner in the few seconds it took to get there, just like the places were set out in the great hall. Harry was still looking around at the House-elves working in the kitchen with a faraway look in his eyes when his shoulders were both firmly grasped and he was pushed down into a waiting chair.

"At some point in the future," he said to the elf, knowing it would be impolite to ignore the others at the table for the duration of their meal, "would you be willing to tell me more about your people?" The elf's eyes became watery once more and Harry was told to call him by name one evening.

#

Harry sat down for lunch the next day, sniffing at the sleeves of his robe. They had been using valerian sprigs in Potions that morning. Valerian was a plant with sweet-smelling flowers and they had been required to separate the leaves, stems and flowers with a brass knife for use in different potions. Apparently the knife had to be brass, but Professor Snape had decided not to tell them why.

His robe was particularly sweet-smelling as he had been one of the few who had progressed past the separation of the three main parts of the plant and onto separating the individual petals and the central part of the flower. Years of work in the garden had prepared him well for the task of dissecting plants with precision.

A shadow fell across Harry and he snapped his head up to see what was causing it. He immediately recognised the shape of a person brandishing a stick and began to raise his arms, before his eyes filled in the rest of the details. It was only Madam Hooch and she seemed to be holding the splintered handle of a broom. Letting out a breath, he lowered his arms and picked his cutlery back up.

"You're very difficult to find, Mr Potter," Madam Hooch began, "even at mealtimes."

"Sorry, ma'am," he replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Never mind. We've looked at the broomstick you used yesterday, or what was left of it, and we only found a few traces of magic on it. This is what we'd expect from a smashed-up broom. As we thought, this will be what's left of the charms that allow a broomstick to fly. Nobody was cursing your broom, Mr Potter." Harry wrinkled his brow at this.

"But I felt the broom acting crazy. That's not normal. It must have been cursed."

"Mr Potter, there's no evidence of that," the flying instructor replied curtly, scowling. "Stop making a scene. I'll see you next Thursday and you can join the beginner group with me so that you can learn how not to fall off your broom."

With that, Madam Hooch placed the now useless stick firmly onto the table in front of him and stalked off back to the staff table, leaving Harry staring after her, slack-jawed. A minute later, his disbelief gave way to resignation and he turned back to his dinner. He paused, then pushed his plate back. Suddenly he wasn't hungry any more. Grabbing the tortured reminder of his first flight, Harry left the great hall.

#

The library was always a peaceful and comfortable place. Few first years tended to spend their free periods on a Friday afternoon in the library and most of the rest of the school was still in class, so the library was even more peaceful than usual. Harry couldn't find the inner calm necessary to get on with his homework, however, so he decided he would work on something interesting. Even though his work comprised of the exact same actions as doing his homework, it was much more enjoyable purely because it was something he wanted to do. He'd worked out long ago that the way to make something bearable was to turn it into something you wanted to do.

Indeed, Harry wanted to work on his first magical project, mostly because he was tired of straining his eyes every Wednesday evening. He quickly sketched out a plan of what steps he'd probably need to take, from 'make the quill glow' to 'get it to point light in one direction onto the parchment'. The occasional question, like 'can you make a liquid like ink glow?' was written in a circle and a warning of 'make sure it's not too bright' was enclosed within a square. Satisfied with the plan of action, the endless shelves around him were the next port of call.

_While the _lumos_ charm is one of the key spells every wizard should know, it has a number of drawbacks. The constant drain of magic from the user, while negligible in the average wizard, should still be considered as such. A further detriment is a component of all spells, in that a spell cannot be cast, or continue to be cast, when a wizard is not holding their wand. This is a benefit for practical safety purposes (see Chapters 1 and 2 regarding safety and the dangers associated with miscasting) and exemplifies the utility of the disarming charm for defence (note that the description of charm for disarming is a misnomer and that the spell in question will not be covered within these pages)._

_A wand may continue to be lit when removed from a wizard's hand for a short period lasting a few seconds. It is presumed that a wand has the ability to store a small amount of magic for this purpose, although the results vary significantly between both wands and wizards. However, this is a feature utilised almost solely by entertainers at large gatherings and has no practical use._

_The _lumos_ charm is not used for bestowing illuminating properties on any item other than the tip of the wand being used to cast the spell. The reader should refer to the Enchanting section of this book to read about the use of charms to change the properties of objects beyond the duration of the spell._

Charming Charms by Calidus Masse was, like every other book in the library, a bit difficult to get through. Wizarding authors seemed to have a penchant for flowery language and clearly thought they were Merlin's gift to the world. Harry had also noticed that there had been not a single mention of witches, compared to the constant references to wizards.

Another issue was the constant referral from one part of the book to another, and sometimes even to a different text. He had bounced around through the book to have it finally tell him that enchanting an object with spells gave annoyingly temporary results. Spells tended to wear off after a while. However, in typical magical textbook fashion, he had been helpfully pointed towards a completely different topic, in a completely different area of the library. Apparently, Ancient Runes would be a useful topic to look into.

Taking the book with him in case it would help with his actual Charms homework, Harry headed back down towards the dungeons. It was almost time for dinner and books often mixed poorly with food. As he came to the grand staircase, somebody was coming in the opposite direction. Harry looked up at the sound made by the person, sounding oddly like 'meep', but only saw the hem of a green-trimmed cloak disappearing down a corridor on the next landing down.

Shaking his head, he returned to his risky strategy of making his way down the grand staircase with his nose in the book. It was with a hefty dose of luck that he avoided the high-speed shuttle service directly to the entrance hall, whose buffet car served generous portions of broken bones. He paid attention to where he was going while in the dungeons, however, as the footing was uneven and the light dim. Passing a few older members of his house loitering in nearby alcoves, Harry eventually made it to the common room.

"Homogeneous" was this month's password to make the wall open up and reveal the common room. Harry smiled every time he had to say it, as well as every time he heard someone else say it, but he smiled even more after his evening with the Weasley twins. The common room was oddly quiet as he walked through and into the _Allies_ dormitory passage.

He smelled it at the same time as he saw it. There was a wisp of smoke curling out from beneath the door to his dormitory.


	10. On Your Marks, Get Sett

**A/N:**** I just wanted to thank everyone who's written reviews lately - I'm sure you all know how inspiring they are. For you guys - for all of you reading - we shall continue in this story, exploring magic just as Harry does. Enjoy!**

_The story so far: Because Harry kept his Hogwarts letter, but didn't reply, he was rescued from the Dursleys. At Hogwarts, however, he was sorted into Slytherin, where he was forced into the subordinate group of the house, the Allies, with a shared dormitory__. G__iven potions to help with scar pain in Defence, Snape initially believes Harry to be simply seeking attention, but is impressed by the boy's Potions knowledge and releases his frustrations by humiliating the Gryffindors in class. Flying lessons with the Gryffindors don't go to plan as his broom goes out of control, but he's saved and befriended by the Weasley twins._

_PREVIOUSLY, upon returning to his dormitory: The common room was oddly quiet as he walked through and into the Allies dormitory passage._

_He smelled it at the same time as he saw it. There was a wisp of smoke curling out from beneath the door to his dormitory._

-Chapter Ten-

On Your Marks, Get Sett...

Oddly, Harry's first thought was that it was a bit of an issue that something could get underneath their door. However, this was quickly quashed by the painfully obvious realisation that smoke tended to be caused by fire. Nearly every year back in his old school, a firefighter had come in to give a talk, reminding the children that fire was, surprisingly enough, dangerous.

Remembering the firefighters' advice, he quickly felt the door handle with the back of his hand to check where the fire was. Feeling that it wasn't hot, and therefore that the fire wasn't close to the door, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. His jaw dropped.

Nearly every bed was on fire. He couldn't see the state of Tracey's little room beyond the new wall, but the only other untouched bed was… his bed? Shaking his head, Harry pulled out his wand, determined to do something. As he racked his brains for a helpful spell, however, he realised that he, as a first year, had absolutely no clue what he could do.

"That's certainly one way to get my attention, Potter," a silky voice said from behind Harry. He spun around and came face to face with Professor Snape, a sneer curled upon his lips. Harry stood there, looking up at the man. With the roaring of the flames behind him and the equally as palpable hostility in front, his brain refused to push any kind of noise from his mouth. Instead, his jaw swung open and shut, mimicking the speech he was attempting in vain.

With the professor's hand firmly on his shoulder, Harry was guided away from the dormitory. The door closed with a wave of the man's wand and the two strode in the direction of the common room. At that point, Harry was glad for the pace of his head of house, having immediately felt the eyes of the entirety of Slytherin upon him.

"I suggest you all make your way to the great hall for lunch," Professor Snape said as they reached the exit. There was a flurry of movement as the students hurried to comply. The wall began to close behind the pair, although not fast enough to block out the babble of conversation that quickly erupted.

Slowly, Harry's brain was spluttering back to life as he felt a hint of relief at being taken in the opposite direction to the great hall. He knew that his fellow Slytherins, as much as that phrase was beginning to feel a little strained, would be rushing to catch them up, but not disobeying Professor Snape's orders to go to the great hall. They wouldn't find them. He could only imagine the rumours that would be spreading through the students - rumours that he didn't deserve.

"Sir, I-" Harry began as his tongue started to work.

"Hush, Potter," the Potions master said, guiding him through a door into a small room. Professor Snape turned him around, put his hands on his shoulders and squatted down to get level with him. "Stay," the man ordered as he looked into Harry's eyes.

#

A golden platter, just like those in the great hall, materialised on the table on the small dungeon room. Harry didn't notice it at first, sitting in the corner with his head in his arms, but the smell of roasted chicken swimming in a thick, dark gravy snuck into Harry's nose and pressed whatever button made his mouth water.

As he tucked in, he remembered how good the food at Hogwarts had been, and how plentiful. He wasn't a great fan of vegetables, having not had enough over the years to acclimatise his palate, but even the greens here in the castle tasted… bearable. However, these thoughts added further salt to the delightfully savoury gravy as tears began to fall. He didn't want to leave the school.

Just as he finished, Harry heard the rattle of the door as it started to open. He had tried the door earlier, but it had been either locked or magically sealed. Sighing, he turned to face Professor Snape.

"Neville?"

"Hi, Harry," Neville said. "Come quick." Harry roughly wiped his face free of any errant watermarks and took Neville's offered hand.

"Why are you here?" Harry blurted out after multiple questions had battled it out for the use of his tongue. Neville furrowed his brow.

"Isn't that what friends do?" he asked. "I know you've been avoiding me - I don't know why - but when a House-elf appears and tells you that your friend's shut in a room, you get up and find him."

"But I thought you didn't like me any more," Harry said in a small voice, looking down at his feet as he followed Neville. He almost bumped into the boy when he stopped at this.

"What makes you think that? We've barely seen you since the welcoming feast."

"I saw how everyone looked at me at the feast. You hated me because I was put into Slytherin."

"Hated you? Harry, we were confused. Merlin, everyone was confused by you going into Slytherin. What do you know about the house?" Harry shrugged at Neville's question. "Right, well, I guess I should start with the fact that Slytherin's considered a dark house. Loads of dark wizards came from Slytherin, including You-Know-Who."

Harry didn't know who, but also didn't want to interrupt. He already felt like he'd made a right mess of things. Thinking about dark wizards in Slytherin, however, he imagined it was probably one of them who had killed his parents. Augusta had refused to tell him who had robbed him so, but it was probably for the best in the end.

"Actually, Hufflepuff is the only house that has never produced a dark wizard," Neville continued with a small smile on his face.

"I-" Harry began, trailing off as he wrapped his head around what he wanted to say. Neville stopped and turned towards Harry, who was still deep on thought. Harry's head bobbed slightly and his eyes scrunched up for the briefest second as Neville put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said as he looked into the eyes of the young Hufflepuff who'd given him a place to stay at the end of the summer.

Little did he know that Neville was about to reprise this role. The two boys had stopped a little way from a large alcove which held a veritable wall of colossal barrels, each on their side with the tops facing out into the corridor. Harry recognised the corridor as being close to the kitchens, so concluded that these barrels must hold various drinks and other liquids used for cooking the vast number of meals consumed by hundreds of ravenous children.

He therefore found it somewhat odd that Neville walked up to one of the barrels, the lid stretching to about a foot above their heads, and started knocking. It was even more strange when the barrel reacted to this, swinging it's lid out into the corridor. Neville took Harry's hand.

"Most people will only ever see their own common room," Neville explained, "but welcome, Harry, to the common room of Helga Hufflepuff." It was a strange way of introducing him to the Hufflepuff common room, but Harry realised that something more was going on when Neville rapped their knuckles together gently in the rhythm of his speech as he said the name of the founder. Harry looked down at his hand, then back up at Neville who had a questioning look. Harry nodded, making Neville smile.

The Hufflepuff common room was very cosy, with a lot of earthy tones used in the decoration. The floor sloped down slightly into the centre of the circular main room and the ceiling mirrored it with a more pronounced dome. Because of the slope of the floor, the tables, chairs and sofas seemed to all have legs of different lengths, preventing anything from being wobbly.

There was a beautiful, calming smell of plants. Different species of plant burst forth from the pots and troughs on the tables, attached to the walls or hanging from the ceiling. Harry and Neville sat together by a particularly leafy specimen, which the Hufflepuff boy absently caressed, and they spent a few minutes catching up on what they'd missed since the start of term. Harry glossed over many of the issues he'd faced, but eventually had to mention the fire. At this, Neville stood and pulled Harry with him towards one of the doors on the wall.

"Harry, this is your room," he said. He pushed the door open to reveal a cosy little bedroom, with his trunk resting at the foot of the bed.

"My room?"

"Of course. Hufflepuff house is known for its inclusivity. We work hard to create a community in this house and stay loyal to each other, but we also provide what we can, where we can. Many Hufflepuffs are cooks or healers or teachers or work in the welfare-based departments of the Ministry. We care and help, and now it's help you."

"But I don't need help," Harry said with a red face, looking away from his friend.

"Then think of it as helping the others in your dormitory." Harry looked up at this. No, Neville was right. Someone was out to get him and they didn't care who got in the way. He gave Neville a small smile and blushed further at the look of relief on the boy's face. He understood that Neville had really put himself out there to say that.

#

Initially, Harry had felt a little awkward. Firstly, there was no hiding his appearance from the Hufflepuffs who soon returned from dinner in the great hall. Thankfully, however, most of them just glanced his way and, occasionally, offered a small smile. The Hufflepuff perfects had approached, introduced themselves and made themselves available if he needed any help, but nobody else approached him and Neville.

What he found the most awkward, however, was that this room had clearly been used as a refuge many times in the past. The bookshelf made it the most obvious, as there were plenty of books relating to well-being and a whole host of issues arranged on the shelves. He understood that the books would be helpful, but felt that they were a constant reminder of why he was here.

Harry tried not to think about how awkward he felt. In fact, he tried to not think about anything at all. He was attempting to clear his mind, following the advice of one of the books. It had caught his eye, and when the introduction had mentioned the existence of mind magics, even a passing reference of no more than a dozen words, he felt it was something he wanted to try.

Emptying your mind turned out to be much trickier than expected. Just like how wanting to sleep often made it harder to switch off, Harry's mind started whirring like crazy just when he wanted it to be quiet. This meditation thing was perfect for ideas to just come into his head unbidden, right when he was least able to act on them. Oh, how he envied Crabbe and Goyle for the ability to have such beautifully empty minds. They probably didn't even know their first names.

Harry had tried to be fair to the two heavyset boys, to persuade himself that they truly did have a glimmer of intelligence. He hadn't been very successful. He'd probably have earned a D, which apparently was a wizarding grade that stood for 'Dreadful'. Very encouraging. Nevertheless, the first class after the fires hadn't helped matters in this regard.

There had been three types of reaction from his Slytherin classmates when he'd next seen them. A number of students fell into what Harry classed as Category Two. They had enough going on between the ears to realise that only Harry's bed, disregarding Tracey's bed because it was unreachable, had not been set on fire. This meant that Harry was clearly the culprit, as nobody would set fire to their own things, especially when a long Transfiguration essay was nearly due.

Sadly, Crabbe and Goyle had fallen into Category One. The fact that Harry's belongings had remained untouched by the flames was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Someone had set a fire in their dormitory, so it must have been someone from outside the dormitory. In the most extreme cases of Category One, it was clearly the work of the Gryffindors.

Category Three was sparsely populated, however, and Harry took note of each of its members, no matter how hard they tried to hide their identities. Some were cunning enough to realise that Harry being the culprit would be too obvious. Either that, or it was clear that certain members of the house were less than subtle about their animosity towards him, and that hostility was the most likely source of this incident. Thinking about the three categories, Harry supposed that he might have to include a fourth category for people like Daphne who were clever enough not to let on which theory they supported.

Harry cursed. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about the categories. He was supposed to be clearing his mind.

#

Wherever he went, there always seemed to be a Hufflepuff nearby, usually from one of the older years. Sometimes it took him a few minutes to spot them, but they were always there. Harry slowly began to get used to the idea that somebody wanted to look out for him. The constant presence of a yellow-trimmed robe was awkward at first, but it was soon appreciated.

It was about a week after the fire, with everybody looking forward to the upcoming Halloween celebrations, when Harry was looking around the castle. He was peeking into various rooms, mentally cataloguing the most interesting specimens to come back to later, when a small group of older students made their way through the corridor in the opposite direction.

Considering that a group of older students, while number, could never be small in size, Harry thought it best to stand to the side of the corridor to allow them to pass. As they approached, he recognised some of them. Upon racking his brains, a couple of names came to him. Flint. Warrington. Avery. They themselves also came to him, careening in his direction as they passed.

Harry closed his eyes, his reflexes knowing what was going to happen before he did. However, the pain didn't come. He wasn't squashed against the wall, glasses knocked askew and robes scuffed by the rough stone. He heard their laughter, though, and opened his eyes. They never looked back at him and we're almost staggering towards the end of the corridor Harry had come from. Looking down at himself, almost in disbelief, he saw the subtle shimmer of some sort of shield.

Seeing the hem of a robe trailing on the floor, poking out of an alcove, Harry approached. He moved as silently as possible. As he neared the alcove in question, a head peered out, looking in his direction. The eyebrows shot up and there was an obvious flinch as Harry was spotted.

"Hey, thanks for that," he said to the boy. Unsurprisingly, the crest on his robes showed an image of a badger. The boy himself was quite good-looking, with flawless skin not marred by the acne so often a hallmark of that age. He was a fourth year or similar, by the looks of him. More than grateful, Harry gave the boy a beaming smile.

Since then, Harry had concluded that it was probably impolite to frequent the more out of the way areas of the castle. He didn't want to inconvenience his protectors. The library therefore became his haven, even more so than before. Nobody could consider being there a waste of time and, with Madam Pince's strident presence, every Hufflepuff could relax and focus on their work.

#

Harry's extended time in the library had a number of results. For one, his homework essays were improving in leaps and bounds. He was becoming adept at filtering a musty, waffling text and extracting the most useful points. He was also starting to see the advantage of using more than one source for his information, comparing different books and identifying any discrepancies that could indicate something inaccurate or, more exciting, not fully understood.

With the improvement in homework came an improvement in classwork, as well as more praise and encouragement from the professors. Whenever there was practical spellwork to be done, Harry would be in the group that was allowed to start practicing earlier, rather than having to continue listening and taking notes. The feedback on his theoretical work had begun to include pointers on essay style and structure, allowing him to complete written work even more quickly.

He had quickly decided that focusing on Transfiguration would help him towards his most immediate goals. It was right at the end of October that the class were learning the spell to harden objects. Professor McGonagall considered this a treat for their work so far, giving them all a break from scowling at various objects and holding their breath as they tried to concentrate on how they could transform those objects. Seeing the head of Gryffindor conjure up cushions for them to harden spurred Harry on to hanging back at the end of class.

"How can I help you, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked as she gathered up the cushions that remained scattered across the desks. Some clinked together, the little sounds telling of the success of the students. Others clearly gave way to the professor's grip, showing that not everyone was quite as successful.

"I wanted to ask for your advice, Professor, if that's ok?" Harry wanted to be sure she had the time for him. He didn't want to be a bother.

"Go ahead, Mr Potter. That's what I'm here for."

"Well, I saw that you created those cushions out of thin air. I was wondering whether you'd be able to teach me how to make a wall or something." The normally stern witch fixed him with a searching look, which softened into a small smile.

"It's not often that I get asked something like this by a first year," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm pleased to see you taking an active interest in your studies. Your mother was just the same."

"Thank you, Professor. Magic is certainly very interesting." Harry didn't want to get distracted by the topic of his parents, no matter how much he enjoyed hearing about them. Although Augusta had managed to tell him a lot about his father's side of the family, the Potters being an old Pureblood family, he'd heard very little about his mother. Nevertheless, he had more pressing and more current matters to deal with, but it was comforting to know that Professor McGonagall would likely be willing to share some stories when they both had time.

"That's good to hear. Right, before looking for a solution to anything, you need to look carefully at the problem. Given that you're thinking about making a wall, I'm going to assume that you want a permanent, solid, durable barrier?"

Harry nodded and took out a sheet of parchment.

#

Harry and Professor McGonagall stayed talking about Transfiguration and the general theories of magic for a long time. Both had lost track of time and it had occurred to none of them that, since it was a Thursday, Harry was meant to be down at the Quidditch pitch that evening. Sooner than either had expected, however, an ornate clock had chimed. It was an odd time for it to chime, being nowhere near the hour.

"Goodness me," Professor McGonagall exclaimed, looking up at the hands shaped like cats' tails. "Is that the time? We should be getting down to the feast, Mr Potter."

Harry reluctantly packed his things away, long abandoned as the pair had become more and more wrapped up in their discussion. At some points, the professor had been grinning widely, usually just before she conceded a point to him. Harry had been similarly excited at times. Learning was so much better when it was an interactive experience. Books had nothing on a knowledgeable and open expert.

However, he had also been disappointed and many of the limitations he had been introduced to. For example, if he had tried to conjure a wall out of nothing, it wouldn't last long. In fact, the bigger the wall, the shorter the time for which it would last. He'd also struggle to make it just the way he wanted it if he were to conjure it in isolation. It was difficult to hold that kind of detail in one's mind.

He was cheered to hear that a solution to many of the issues inherent to the problem at hand would be in transfiguring something which already existed and fitted the brief. Changing something was a lot easier than creating something anew. Conjuration took a lot of mental stamina, concentration, deep understanding of the object, as well as plenty of magical power in order to create matter out of thin air, and it was still a poor solution. Changing the shape of an object, on the other hand, took comparatively little of each and, once you'd got the hang of the process, was infinitely more useful.

Harry continued pondering the nuances of the different types of Transfiguration throughout the feast. He was glad to be sitting between Daphne and Tracey as the two were understanding and didn't interrupt his thoughts by trying to drag him into a conversation. As much as their company was pleasant, though, he still wished he could sit back at the Hufflepuff table like he could for normal meals. However, the feast was particularly truculent on the subject of being normal, and the next aberration came in the form of the doors slamming open.

"Troll! On the fifth floor! Thought you ought to know…"


End file.
